


High-Flying Birds

by Johaerys



Series: This and This and This: Achilles & Patroclus [1]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles in Skyros, Angst, Angst and Feels, Coming of Age, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Smut, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), POV Patroclus, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Romance, Start of Relationship, Teenagers, patroclus waxing lyrical about Achilles's hair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25151149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys
Summary: Achilles, the sun casting its last rays around his head like a halo, resplendent and aureate.Achilles, the soles of his feet flashing pink as he sprints across the beach.Achilles, slender fingers plucking the strings of his lyre, eyes green like fresh pressed olives. His cat's smile."Guess what I'm thinking about," he says.The robin that flew over our heads but a minute past. The dream he had last night of a ship with purple sails, its prow slicing the waves of the Aegean sea. The wooden amulet that hangs about the augur's neck. This and this and this."I'll be the first hero to be happy," he would tell me years later. "You're the reason."A collection of all the scenes we didn't get to see inThe Song Of Achilles. Follows the timeline of the book.
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus, Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Series: This and This and This: Achilles & Patroclus [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934749
Comments: 125
Kudos: 295





	1. This and This and This

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [[Vietnamese Translation] High-Flying Birds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26253775) by [TenkoOnCloudNine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenkoOnCloudNine/pseuds/TenkoOnCloudNine)



> Hello! This is a collection of one shots inspired by the main events in The Song of Achilles, and will be exploring and expanding the relationship between Patroclus and Achilles from the very beginning. The scenes will be in chronological order, and they're either an expansion on canon scenes, a retelling of certain moments through Achilles' POV, or brand new scenes that fit in between the main events. I try to stay as close to canon as possible, only tweaking very minor stuff.
> 
> I recently finished the book and I've been inconsolable, so this is my way of coping with and processing my overdramatic feelings for these two. I'll be updating as I write. Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :)

Achilles, the sun casting its last rays around his head like a halo, resplendent and aureate.

Achilles, the soles of his feet flashing pink as he sprints across the beach.

Achilles, slender fingers plucking the strings of his lyre, eyes green like fresh pressed olives. His cat's smile.

"Guess what I'm thinking about," he tells me.

The robin that flew over our heads but a minute past. The dream he had last night of a ship with purple sails, its prow slicing the waves of the Aegean sea. The wooden amulet that hangs about the augur's neck. This and this and this.

There was no end to the things we talked about. Every breath brought with it a new word, a new idea, a new dream I hadn't shared. A thing I didn't know and he did, a tune that he had never heard but I had. The songs of my country were foreign to him, and, though it'd been years, I could still remember some of them if I followed the shifting undercurrents of my mind. The softness in Achilles's features when I hummed them to him was worth the painful memories they summoned.

We would play, invent games for ourselves that could last the whole day, sometimes well into the night. He taught me how to play with sun-bleached sheep anklebones, tossing them in the air one by one and catching them all again- _astragalus,_ he called that game. I always lost and he always won, his hands were nimble and swift, much swifter than mine; but how could I hold it against him? How could I strive for greatness when greatness was peering straight at me with laughing eyes? It was enough for me to see the effortless grace in his limbs, the light catching in his golden hair as he tossed his head back in triumph. I did not have to prove myself to him. I was Patroclus, and he was Achilles, and that was enough.

After the games we would talk. And talk. And talk. About everything and nothing. About our most well kept secrets, our innermost desires, and about the spices the cook used when he made the honey cakes. Achilles's favourites. He would wolf them down two by two and then grin at me, his lips and fingers still sticky with the golden nectar. He only smiled so broadly, so brightly, when he was with me, I noticed.

Did that make me special to him? I often wondered, then. Did that mean he liked me, cherished me, wished me to stay by his side? Soon I would find my mind drifting from such thoughts. He was Achilles, and he was beautiful, and he had plucked me from the dreary reality of an exile son in a stranger's kingdom, and breathed in me the life of someone who could look at the horizon ahead and say, yes, I can do that. I can stretch my hand and touch the line where the sea meets the sky, trace its razor sharp edge with my fingertips. I was by his side, and the world was ours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! 
> 
> I'd gladly take prompts or ideas for one-shots if you have them! Feel free to type them in a comment or send me a message on Tumblr.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Thorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is set about 6 months to a year before their first (proper) kiss at Mount Pelion.

The day was warm and humid, the air sliding down my throat like honey from the comb. The water in the stream by Chiron’s cave was cool, though, and I did not mind much that the sweat on my brow seemed to mingle with the drops of dew that lingered on my skin only minutes after I’d finished bathing. I knew I could jump right back if the heat became stifling.

Achilles was lying beside me, one arm curled under his head, the morning sun playing along the fluid lines of his body, tiny beads reflecting the light where water still pooled; in the corners of his eyes, the dip in his collarbone, the line at the center of his chest, the pink swirl of his bellybutton. Smooth slopes, perfect planes and angles, shadows gathering in the small hollows where the muscles and bones came together or parted under his skin. The water on my body looked like water. On Achilles it looked like pearls, like rough cut diamonds, like stars. It was the shade of his skin, I told myself; rich and vibrant and golden, whereas mine was tan and quite plain. It wasn’t so much a comparison as an observation, as it was always difficult for me to compare myself to him. I was Patroclus, and he was Achilles, and that was that. Who compares themselves to the son of a goddess, after all? If it was a game, I would have lost before it had even begun.

Achilles didn’t seem to have noticed me watching. I was always mindful not to look too long, not to give myself away. There was a fear in me, that if I looked too long my vision would perhaps darken and grow dull, as if I’d stared wide eyed at the bright midsummer sun. Yet I knew that my fear of Achilles noticing that lingering gaze of mine and fleeing, like he had that day at the beach so long ago, was greater, far greater, and it kept my fierce inclination under a tight rein. I could not risk giving myself away and losing him.

It was thoughts such as these that swivelled in my mind when Achilles cracked an eyelid open and looked at me.

The breath that had been slowly gliding down my throat caught, and I hastily looked away. I heard Achilles shifting, sitting up, the grass under his body giving way.

“Think I can reach that in ten?” he asked.

I gazed at him curiously. Only then did I realise he was looking at a low hanging branch over the river, several paces away from us. “Perhaps,” I said.

He gave me his wolfish smile, eyes bright with mischief and the thrill of a challenge, before pushing himself up on his feet. “Keep time.” The slow running waters rippled when they embraced his body.

Sleek and agile and quick, his arms knifed through the silver surface of the water soundlessly, like a fish. It was a marvel, watching him move; the way his body seemed to morph and melt and change. When he swam, he was a dolphin, smooth edges and polished skin that shone in the light. When he ran, he was a wild horse, nimble and swift, his slender limbs carrying him forward like the wind would blow through a ship’s sails. When he played the lyre, his fingers were hummingbirds, plucking at the strings like they were collecting nectar from blossoms heavy with dew. The sounds that came from it were even sweeter.

I watched in quiet fascination, as I always did, tapping my foot on the grassy ground beneath me to keep time. One, two, three. Seven, eight, nine. Before I’d tapped for the last time, his blonde locks, darkened by the water, emerged from beneath the water’s edge. His arm sprung up, his fingers wrapped around the tree’s branch, pulling himself up. “How much?”

“Nine,” I called back to him, and rested back on my elbows. He had won, and he was jubilant, triumph and wild satisfaction shimmering in the golden flecks in his eyes. I fancied I could see them from where I was, but it was my mind that supplied the rest of the image. I knew that look on him. It was the one I loved seeing on him the most. This, and when he closed his eyes, basking in the sun, his features calm and tensionless. This, and when he played the lyre, and his chin lifted as if on its own to expose his face to the sky, and it was like he could touch the heavens with his voice alone. This, and when he teased me, and the edges of his lips curled in his cat’s smile. This, and this and this.

With the contentment of his win giving his body an energetic buoyancy, he swam back to me, sliding on his belly along the wet sand of the river bank. “I’ll race you.”

I smiled. “There’s no need.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll win,” I said. “You always do.”

“So?” There was curiosity in his gaze now. “Just because you might lose doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

I settled back on the grass with a small sigh. “Perhaps another day.” I didn’t want to admit that, in the act of competing with him, I lost the advantage of being the spectator. I couldn’t notice his every movement, the way his muscles rose and fell under his skin, the way his feet or hands moved, the concentration in his expression, this and that of him. I didn’t want to say it, so I said nothing.

I yelped instead when Achilles’ fingers closed about my ankle and drew me to the water. It was cool and fresh when it touched my skin, making it prickle. I laughed, because his hands tickled when they moved up my leg, pulling me deeper still, like he was a river nymph come to claim me and draw me into the dark depths.

“Let me go-” I tried to say, reaching for the shore to draw myself away from him, but he was quicker. He pinned me down, his arms closing around me like vices. His chest pressed up against my own felt odd, close, too close. It was as if I had suddenly forgotten to breathe and my skin was growing tight. I slithered from out of his grasp, kicking at the water as I dived in my effort to escape. He caught me again, and we grappled and twisted and writhed in the water, one moment half-submerged, the next shooting towards the surface like jumping fish. We laughed until we were breathless, wrestled until a rosy flush crept up Achilles’ cheeks. I knew then that my face would be as red as a ripe pomegranate. I shoved him playfully away and swam towards the banks, and that was when he pounced on me.

My back was pressed to the soft sand. My wrists were pinned above my head. Achilles was on me, hovering over me, keeping my legs in place with his knees at either side of me. His chest rose and fell with his breaths, and the muscles in his arms stood out where he was holding me. He was grinning, his green eyes flashing, water streaming down his soaked strands, molten gold raining down my cheeks. Wild and beautiful, effervescent, with the sun crowning him in gold. He leaned down and pressed his nose to mine.

First, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Then, a slow roll of warmth, like a thousand tiny prickles, ran up my legs, pooling in my belly. Last, came the pressure. That tightening in my core that had been coming more and more often of late, and that I could do nothing to stop.

Panic gripped me. I turned my head away, struggled to free myself from his hold. “Enough,” I croaked, “that is enough.” Achilles released me immediately and I jumped into the stream, anxious to get away from him, to hide any evidence of my desire for him, the thorn in my side that ached and troubled me. I swam and swam, past the low hanging branch. When I turned back, Achilles was gone.

I carried myself on heavy limbs to the small clearing where I usually went to play the flute, sat under a tree to dry. My heart was still beating frantically in my chest, my head was light, too light. I leaned back on the tree trunk and took a deep breath, gazing up at the shifting canopy of leaves above me, the pockets of sunshine that slithered through the cracks. Could his mother see us there? I wondered. Could she see how his presence made my heart race and my blood warm and fizzle in my veins? I prayed that she did not, though I had little faith in the gods. But I had faith in him. Him.

My hand drifted down, between my legs, escaping my notice. I thought of long limbs and fluid lines, of slender fingers gripping my ankles and my wrists, of a triumphant grin, of drops of water that looked like stars. My hand moved ceaselessly to remove that ache, that thorn, to banish it, as it had done so many times before. “Last time,” I always told myself, “this is the last time. Tomorrow will be different.” Yet, each time, after it was done, I always found the thorn lodged a little deeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :)


	3. Watching You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is set a few months before the first kiss :)

Achilles liked watching me.

I hadn't thought much of it at first. To me, he was an extension of myself, the way we were always within breathing distance of each other. I told myself, it is to be expected. Sometimes, during those long, quiet summer afternoons, when boredom would get the better of me, I would bring my hand before my eyes, hold it up against the sun, study the muscles and the bones and the veins that shone through my skin like gossamer wings. That was how he looked at me, I told myself.

But it wasn't.

One day, we climbed up to the mountain to gather herbs for a poultice Chiron needed to make. Wild clover and mallow, nettle and chamomile blossoms. It was a bright day, and warm, and soon I grew weary of our trek. I sat underneath the cool shade of a tree, rested my head against its trunk and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I saw Achilles watching me. Our gazes met, and he glanced away, bending down to pluck a chamomile flower. Right at that moment, a butterfly flew past me, its white wings fluttering before me. I followed the path of its trembling flight for a few breaths, absently noting that it chose to land on the yellow and not the pink blossom nearby, before pushing myself up. It was a simple observation, one that one’s mind makes automatically, without giving it much thought. That was how he looked at me, I told myself.

But it wasn't.

Spring was almost over. The white berry trees were heavy with fruit, and the cries of the wild cat cubs kept us awake at night. It wasn't quite summer though, yet, and the warm and humid heat of _Homoloios_ had just subsided to the chill winds of _Theilouthios_ , and the water flowing from the peaks of Mount Pelion was as cold as only fresh melted ice could be. Still, it had been months since I'd bathed in the stream near our cave, and I wasn't about to let the chill stop me. Achilles was of the same opinion.

"If we get too cold," he told me, "we can just lie under the sun beside the willow tree and we'll get warm again."

Every hair on my body stood on end when I dipped my toe in the water. Achilles, ever the bolder of the two, took a sharp breath and dove in headfirst. I stood by the water’s edge for a long while, watching as Achilles’s arms swept under the water in lazy arcs, creating ripples on its surface. He flipped on his back, the taut flesh of his stomach shimmering in the morning light. I took a hesitant step forward, and he lifted his head to look at me.

His eyes, rough emeralds flecked with gold, took in my form. They did so slowly, trailing from my eyes, to my neck, to my collarbone. They paused for a moment before resuming their downward journey, gliding past my chest, my stomach, my navel. And there, they stayed. And stayed. And stayed.

Time was caught in a strange, diaphanous bubble. I was instantly within and without it, watching as Achilles watched me, as his gaze focused and darkened. I shivered.

“The water’s too cold,” I said, although I barely heard myself say it. I stepped back, out of the water, and the bubble popped, and time started flowing again. Achilles’s eyes snapped to mine, and then I knew.

Achilles liked watching me, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homoloios = May, Theilouthios = June, according to the Ancient Boetian Calendar, the area of Greece close to where Patroclus and Achilles grew up, and might have been used at the time.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Honey and Gold

Achilles' hair was a thing of beauty.

Darker at the roots, the colour of wheat in the summer, just before the harvest. Fine and straight, it never curled, even when heavy with salt water. Long, flowing freely down his back, smoothing in between his shoulder blades. When dry, it was wisps of spun gold, fluttering with the wind, with the calm or buoyant rhythm of his movements. When wet, it clung to his skin, followed the curve of his head and his shoulders, like the swirls on the necks of gilded amphorae. I never tired of the sight of it.

That evening, Achilles and I were lying on the grass outside the cave after our chores had been finished, enjoying the setting sun after days of rain. He was beside me, stretching his muscles, rolling his shoulders this way and that, tilting his head to the side, bringing his arm up and behind his neck. I pretended not to look, but my treacherous gaze would drift towards him every so often. He had his back to me, so I relished the chance to watch him without being seen. I still didn’t know, what his eyes on me meant. It was a feeling that was foreign to me. I wasn’t often looked at. I’d been overlooked since the moment of my birth, and that was what I was used to. But to be noticed like this, seen, to have Achilles’s gaze roam over my form, his eyes lock with mine… I couldn’t make sense of it. So I shied away from it. As best I could.

I took in a deep breath, let the scents of spring mingling with summer fill my lungs. The night and the day after it had been long, and it had been raining, and the smell of damp earth clung to my nostrils. The air had a different smell on Mount Pelion. It was crisper, fresher as it descended from the frosty mountain peaks. In Phthia, it smelt rich and iodine, the salty sea breeze carrying even in the depths of Peleus’s palace. Salt water always reminded me of Thetis, now. Memories came to me, of her dark, inhuman eyes, the blood red gush of her mouth, her hair, black as night, moving around her in an otherworldly wind, like fishermen’s nets being swayed by the currents. My heart tightened and my stomach twisted in knots at the thought. That fear, that she would notice my lingering affection for him, take him away from me, was ever present in my mind. I could not, would not allow it. Life without him was unthinkable. I would be with him, by his side, no matter the cost to me. No matter the hurt. This, I swore to myself.

The sigh that left my lips must have been audible, for Achilles turned to glance at me over his shoulder. Golden strands drifted with the breeze, catching in his eyelashes. “Is something the matter?”

I swallowed thickly, blinking at him. I could have said no. I could have made up an excuse. I could have lied. It would have certainly made things easier.

“I’d like to braid your hair.”

The words left my lips before I could stop them. I could never, ever lie to him.

Achilles’s brow quirked in question. He stretched his arm behind his head one last time, slowly, as if considering. Then he nodded, once, and looked at me. “Alright. You can braid my hair.”

My heart leapt into my throat. I prayed that Achilles could not hear its rapid beating as I knelt behind him and slowly, almost reverentially, combed my fingers through his locks. Silk threads parted under my fingertips, the tiny wisps at the base of his skull brushing my skin like feathers. Achilles tilted his head back, in time with my movements, exposing the curve of his neck, slender and swan-like. His eyes were half closed, his breathing even and smooth. Neither of us spoke as I picked up a thin strand, working it into a plait that lay close to his scalp. I had seen the warriors of Styra, from the mountains of north Eubea, braid their hair like this. They always wore it long and tightly bound, and they were as proud of their locks as of the sharpness of their bronze tipped spears. I worked silently, watching Achilles’s expression from the corner of my eye, careful not to let my fingers linger over his ear or the back of his neck. A fierce need tugged at me, a roaring blaze- I wanted to snatch my hands away and edge back, as much as I longed to bury my nose in his hair, let his smell fill my lungs to bursting. His smell. Almonds and honey, fresh soil after warm summer rain, that musky sweetness that was his alone. I knew his smell. I knew it, better than my own. It followed me wherever I went. I would know him anywhere, just by that smell.

My mouth was dry, my cheeks too hot. I focused on the act of braiding, on the rich, silken strands that glided through my fingers, trying not to look at the soft fluttering of Achilles’s eyelids or the small, relaxed smile that curled his lips. When I finished, most of Achilles’s hair was bound in plaits that reached the center of his back, following the smooth channel of his spine.

“So?” he asked. “How does it look?”

He turned to look at me, and my breath caught.

Fierce and captivating, his features sharp as if carved with sculptor’s tools, softened by the the braids that framed his face. These warrior plaits looked more real on him, more apt, than on any other warrior I had ever seen, even though Achilles had never raised his spear against a single soul. His eyes shone in the light, radiant and true, like stars that always pointed north.

I must have stared too long. Achilles’s brows drew together in a frown. “What? Is there something wrong with it?”

“No,” I breathed, shaking my head, hoping that the flush that coloured my cheeks could be mistaken for the sun’s kiss. “I wish we had a looking glass. So you could look upon yourself.”

“I don’t need it. I have you.” Achilles smiled, pleased, and tossed one of the braids over his shoulder. “Tell me how I look.”

_You’re beautiful._

“You’re…” I swallowed, my pulse buzzing in my ears. “Your hair’s very long.”

Achilles’s gaze focused on me, dark and intent. His tongue, pink and glistening, ran over his lips, and only then did I realise how close to mine they were. Slowly, he reached up, smoothing back a stray curl that had fallen before my eyes. “So is yours,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving mine.

I opened my mouth, I think, to speak, but no sound came out. My heart skipped and thumped, my lungs too small for my breath, too tight. If I leaned forward then, I knew, my lips would meet his. I would taste the sweetness of his mouth, the softness of his tongue. I would feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. I would thread my fingers through his hair, and let myself be swept away in seas of honey and gold.

“You should let your hair grow longer still,” he whispered. His long, slender fingers pushed that curl behind my ear. “Then I’ll braid it for you, too.”

“Yes,” I said, though I barely heard myself say it. My voice sounded as if coming from somewhere far away. “I’d like that.”

Achilles let his hand fall to his lap and I shivered with the hollowness of its absence. He looked about him, and something changed in him. It was as if he had suddenly woken up from a dream. “I don’t know how to do braids,” he replied solemnly. His expression had grown serious and aloof. “You’ll have to teach me.” And with that he turned around, resuming his stretches.

I settled back on the grass, watched as the muscles on his back and his arms tightened and relaxed. I watched as he finished, as he lay beside me, as the shadows around us grew long. I watched, but Achilles did not.

The dusk found us, and we spoke no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the awkwardness of youth... and the ever present fear of a tempestuous sea goddess.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I always love hearing from you :)
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi if you fancy!


	5. Growing Pains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit more angsty than originally intended. I wanted to explore the idea of a Patroclus that believes that Achilles can never return his feelings, and an Achilles that _cannot_ show his feelings (in other words, more of that teenage angst and drama!), and... this happened. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! More fluff to come soon :)

The mountain wind combed through my hair as I ran, as fast as my legs would carry me.

Achilles was ahead of me, swerving past tree trunks, hopping over rocks and raised roots along the serpentine path. The tall grass that framed the narrow dirt road bent and rustled with the breeze his movements stirred; the only sound that betrayed his presence. That, and the little hanging clouds of dust his feet raised when they struck the earth.

I couldn’t hear him when he ran. I could never hear him. I could only watch, and follow. Watch the rippling of the crisp white fabric of his tunic. The grass that brushed against the sides of his thighs, like feathers. His hair, flowing down his back, unbound and unfettered. The rays of sun that slithered through the trees, through the shifting gaps in their thick foliage, only to be caught, like rabbits in a snare, in the lustre of his locks, the slight sheen that graced his slender shoulders and his neck.

Beautiful. Wild. Ethereal.

I paused to take a breath, my pulse beating wildly in my throat. I did not know how long I’d run- it must have been long, longer than usual, for my lungs were burning and my legs were just starting to cramp up. I would have run more, if I could, if only to walk in the almost-shapes in the soil his steps left, if only to convince myself that I could still follow in his wake, even if I never quite caught up.

It was becoming harder, that, the more time passed, I absently remarked.

“We can reach the mountain peak today,” Achilles had told me that morning, and I’d believed him. “A day this clear, we might be able to catch a glimpse of the sea below.” So I’d followed, not because I longed to see the waters of the Aegean, or the Pagasetic gulf in the distance, where Jason had once built his legendary ship, but because being in his vicinity was a need as natural as breathing for me. The comfort of knowing he was within reach. Close, yet still so far away from me.

I heard him call my name from somewhere up above, his voice mingling with the sighing of the wind.

“Not too long until we reach the top,” he informed me when I joined him a minute later. He was perched upon a large, flat rock, his long legs tucked underneath him, slender fingers playing with a stalk of wild wheat. I could just see the flutter of his pulse under his skin, the light flush that coloured his cheeks, a bead of sweat that arced lazily down the tendons of his throat, past the dip in his collarbone, only to disappear beneath the folds of his tunic. It glimmered faintly before it was gone, like the winking of a star in the night sky, and I felt a stirring in my chest that had nothing to do with my exertion. I swallowed, looked away.

“It’s still a ways away,” I said, coming to sit next to him. It was a warm day, and the surface of the rock was warm as well, but the cool breeze chilled my heated skin. “An hour perhaps, or more.”

“Not if we press harder.”

I laughed weakly. “I don’t think I can press any harder. Not today.”

“I think,” he said, his lips curving in a slow spreading smile, “you underestimate yourself.”

I returned his smile with a sigh. “I believe you enjoy seeing me suffer.”

“I do not.”

“Is that so?”

The smile widened, brightened, reaching his eyes and crinkling their corners. The feathery ends of the wheat stalk he was holding tickled when he brushed them over my ear. “It is so.”

“Sometimes, it appears otherwise.” I swatted the stalk away, chuckling. I could still feel the ghosts of that faint tickling, and I rubbed my earlobe, turning to look at him. His eyes had never left me, but the amusement was gone from them. There was curiosity in them now, and something else. Something very still, immovable, holding its breath.

“Sometimes,” he said, uttering each word slowly, carefully, “appearances are deceiving.”

I was taken aback by the earnestness in his voice, the intensity in his gaze. I felt caught, pinned, unable to do anything but return his stare.

“What does that mean?” I managed to say after a long moment.

Achilles shrugged, looking away from me. The flush in his cheeks was brighter now, but that could have been a play of the light. He tossed the wheat stalk away and unfolded from the rock, starting back up the narrow path, his nimble legs carrying him effortlessly forward. Further and further away.

“Achilles!” I called after him, pushing off the rock. “What does that mean?”

The hoot of a distant dove was my only answer.

A sudden, sullen determination sparked in me, as I followed on aching limbs. I would not be left behind. I would be by his side, always; this, I had sworn to myself. There were things I didn’t understand about him, things that eluded me and things that pained me, yet even so, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I knew that; if there was ever a constant in my life, that was it. That was him.

I watched him as he drifted away, as his slender form blended with the morning light that filtered through the trees, and at that moment, he felt more distant than ever. There was a time, I reminded myself, when I was content with watching. When I would admire him from up close or from afar, commit every movement, every plane and angle and curve perfectly in my mind, and that had been enough for me. Yet now I found myself aching for something I could never have, stretching bodily towards something I could never grasp. I closed my eyes, and his smile swam under my tightly closed lids, his laughter rang in my ears. I breathed, and I could smell the light musk of his sweat, the scented oils he used on his feet. At night, when we went to bed and he lay by my side, my treacherous mind would drift to that day by the beach, so long ago, a fish that willingly got tangled in the same nets, over and over again. The details were now hazy and indistinct, as if from a distant dream, but the feel of his lips against my own, the warmth of his skin, the softness of his breath were always there. Always, no matter how hard I tried to forget, to push it away, to hide it in the deepest recesses of my brain.

Part of me, I realised, didn't want to banish those memories. An insidious, hungry part of me wanted nothing more than to clutch and hold them close, to relive them again and again, to taste the second hand wonder of something that could never be my own. It stung like a burr under my feet, but I wanted it anyway. I wanted to be close to him anyway, even if I could never have him the way I longed to have him. Even if I was always meant to follow, just a little way behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Jason is a hero of Greek Mythology, who was born and raised in Thessaly and, according to the myths, also spent much of his childhood with Chiron. He was said to have built his legendary ship named Argo in the port town of Pagasae, which was located in the northern extremity of the Pagasetic gulf. Jason and his crew would come to be known as the Argonauts. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <3


	6. Crystal Clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Achilles POV- I hope I do him justice! I love exploring his mind, and all his thoughts that we didn't get to see in the book. The next couple of chapters will probably be through his POV, too. I hope you enjoy!

At twelve, Achilles had the world at his feet and didn’t quite know what to do with it.

He ran and swam and climbed. He practiced his spearwork, where no one could see. In the evenings, he went to the dining hall to sit with the other boys. They peered at him with glittering eyes, asked him questions, laughed at his jests. They all wanted to be like him, Mother had said; the one destined to be the greatest warrior the world had ever seen. People longed to be close to him, she would often advise, not just to befriend him, but to admire him, as one would a statue of marble and gold; vainly hoping that the shimmering halo of his glory might touch them too, that their names would live on in the minds of gods and men like his own would. 

They all adored him, to be sure. Achilles wasn’t sure they really liked him. 

Then, one warm late summer day, in the palace had wandered a boy. He was small and scrawny, and Achilles had not paid him much mind- Father took in plenty of boys, boys with no wealth or a family that wanted them, or any promise of glory. Patroclus, _glory of the father:_ that was the name he had given when asked. The day had been too warm and slow, the hours gliding by like golden sap down the pine tree trunks, and Achilles had been too sleepy to dwell on the irony.

The boy did not follow Achilles wherever he went. He did not laugh at his jokes. He didn’t watch him in awe and wonder, he didn’t ask him questions. In fact, he ignored him for the most part. 

Achilles had found that odd.

The occasions when the boy would look at him were odder still. It was usually in the evenings, in the dining hall, where Achilles would see him; the boy sat alone, apart from the others, a shadow. Achilles would only catch his gaze mere seconds before it flitted away to the window, or the floor, or back to his plate, yet in those moments, those rare moments when their eyes would meet, Achilles saw something that he’d never seen before, and it was directed at him. 

Anger. Bitterness. Hate, even. 

It fascinated him. Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine what the cause of that heated momentary glare could be. What could have happened to a boy his age, to make him look at him so? 

He’d resolved to watch him. As much as he could. 

It was a game they played. A silent agreement, so natural that it was instinctual; whoever caught the other’s eye first would win. Achilles had expected to win this game, as he did all others, but he soon found himself on par with him. He was fast, but the boy was often faster, his gaze flicking away before he could catch it, slipping out of his grasp like an eel. In those moments when Achilles would finally catch his eye, his heart would flutter and his stomach would lurch just a little with the thrill of a defeat barely missed. They made him feel strange, the boy’s eyes on him. 

One day, the boy disappeared. 

He wasn’t in the practice yard with the others. He didn’t come to the dining hall for the afternoon meal. He must have been sick, Achilles thought, and his heart had clenched at the thought of this worthy game companion being unwell. But when he had gone to his room to look, the boy wasn’t there. 

In a storage room, hidden behind some oil-carrying amphorae, Achilles had found him. Achilles had already been a little flustered, a touch annoyed that he would hide himself so. He had expected the boy to cower before him, to apologise to him; he was the prince, after all, and he had caught him out. Yet when the boy had looked up at him, and he saw that familiar flicker of annoyance in his gaze, Achilles found his own dissipating. 

“Patroclus,” he’d said, and the sounds of the boy’s name filled his mouth, sweet and round like grapes. That, Achilles reflected years later, was when their friendship had started in earnest. 

Patroclus had become his _therapon_ , his loyal attendant, his companion in all things. He’d been quiet at first, withdrawn. His silence had made Achilles want to know more about him, to crack his shell and take a peek inside. He took him everywhere with him- he even let him see him train. They played games and raced and wrestled, and then Achilles would play the lyre for him and Patroclus would smile. Achilles liked it, when Patroclus smiled. 

Days and nights they spent together, and they never seemed enough. Drunk on the incessant energy of their new bond, they never even noticed the time passing. They fit well together, as well as any bond-mates could. Patroclus never pretended, never hid himself from him. He would look at him, and Achilles always knew just what was hiding in their dark depths. He could see it all, no matter what it was. Annoyance, hurt, fear, worry. The heat of his suppressed anger. The flickering sparks of his joy, his ecstasy, the laughter that crinkled the corners of his eyes and wrinkled his nose. His pleasure. His pain.

His love. 

Achilles had seen that, too. Sometimes, he thought it was always there, lurking just beneath each one of Patroclus’ expressions when he looked at him. He often wondered whether Patroclus could see it in him as well. 

It made him feel things, the wonder in Patroclus’ gaze. Now, that it was just the two of them in Pelion, away from the palace and the shadows of his mother and his father, Patroclus’ presence was a source of ease, of peace; it reminded him of the soft lapping of waves against the shore, a constant undercurrent, a persistent rhythm at the back of his mind. It made him think of the warmth of the sun as it beat on his skin. It took him back to lazy summer afternoons, when they would lay on the shore and the sea water would lick at his ankles and his toes and the sand would stick to fingers, and seagulls would crow overhead.

Other times, it reminded him of that time, that distant, solitary time when Patroclus had leaned close; so close, that his lips had closed over his own.

Their sudden proximity had startled him; that, he remembered clearly enough. It startled him still, the way his pulse would skip when he thought of it. He hadn’t known what to make of that then, that kiss they’d shared. Achilles had fled, and he often wondered whether he had acted wisely. It was a thorn within him, the answer to that question. Achilles could always feel his mother’s gaze on him; more, the closest he was to the sea. He had almost felt her ire then; sometimes, when he looked at Patroclus, he thought he could feel her ire still. 

Achilles took a deep breath, stretching his arms over his head. If he pretended, he could almost forget that his mother was, probably, just within reach. The grass was soft and warm where he lay, the sun bright and round like a golden coin as it loomed high above. He always liked the day better than the night; things were always so much clearer then, their edges crisp and pronounced. Patroclus, on the other hand, had always been a night owl, staying up with him until the moon was high up in the sky. It was for good reason that his father always called him _scops_. A night owl, one of those that hooted softly into the night, their distant call mingling with the trill of crickets and the night breeze. His _scops_ , Achilles thought, and smiled to himself. 

Patroclus was sitting a little way away from him, his back resting against a tree trunk. His hair was overgrown, dark curls falling over his eyes as he looked down at the piece of wood in his lap. He had already started shaping it with his sharp carving knife. Achilles watched as Patroclus’ fingers gripped the knife firmly, yet delicately, the way they smoothed over the wood. Long fingers, slender and reed-like, always careful. A healer’s hands, Chiron often called them. An artist’s hands, Achilles would think when he watched them at work, a crafter’s. Always at work, always breathing life into something new. Something beautiful. 

Sometimes, as if to challenge himself, Achilles tried to look at him through his mother’s eyes. The messy curls that hung over his brow, which he often hid behind. His smile that sometimes slipped sideways, wide and crooked. The bones on his shoulders and his knees that pushed against his skin. Achilles had always found them endearing- yes, even lovely, yet he knew his mother saw him inferior in every way, unworthy of Achilles’ company. Less. Less, in every way that mattered.

A sullen anger sparked inside him at the thought. Achilles loved his mother. She had always been by his side, even when that had caused her pain, and he knew she had his best interests at heart. Yet Patroclus was his best friend. His brother. His _therapon_. They’d both sworn, and nobody and nothing could change that. Not even his mother. 

Achilles stubbornly brushed his anger away as he let his gaze glide over Patroclus’ features, his delicate hands, his knees that were carefully folded underneath him. Noticing his gaze, Patroclus’ eyes flicked up, meeting his. His cheeks flushed just a little, as they usually did of late. Achilles liked it, when Patroclus blushed. He wasn’t sure what caused it, but he liked the way his skin warmed, the way his lips curled upwards. It gave him a strange sort of light, a radiance that seemed to come from within and to be meant just for him. 

Achilles stuck his tongue out at him, and Patroclus laughed. Achilles grinned. He liked the sound of his laugh. “What are you making?” he asked him.

Patroclus held it up. The piece of wood had already started taking shape, and Achilles could just make out the slender neck of the doe curling as it tilted its head to the side. 

“It’s beautiful,” Achilles said, and meant it. Patroclus blushed even more. 

“I’m not finished with it yet,” he replied timidly, bringing it back down. “I thought- well, I thought I’d make you something.”

“What for?”

Patroclus shrugged. A flash of white teeth over his flushed bottom lip when he bit it. “No reason.” He looked back down, his knife starting to carve deep lines in the wood once more, when it suddenly jerked in his hold. Patroclus hissed as the knife dug into his finger. Blood welled from the wound, bright red drops that marred the smooth wood in his hands. 

Achilles was on his feet in an instant, coming to his side. Patroclus was watching the blood on his hands, transfixed, mouth twisted in a pained grimace. Achilles took Patroclus’ hand in his own and, before he could stop to think, brought his wounded finger to his lips.

Patroclus shivered, his hand going rigid in his hold. “Achilles…” he started, but whatever he was about to say drifted away with the passing breeze.

The taste of blood, sharp and metallic, coated Achilles’ tongue, and something sparked in him. It was hot and wild, a rushing river that he could barely rein in. 

A shaky exhale left Patroclus’ mouth. Achilles looked up at him, at his flushed cheeks and his eyes, wide and liquid in the morning light, peering straight at him. He gazed at his lips, slightly parted, glistening. It took everything within him not to lean forward, to close the distance between them, to press him up against the tree behind him and kiss him. 

Gods and demons, how he wanted to kiss him. 

He hastily slid his lips off Patroclus’s finger, tore his gaze away. His pulse thundered in his ears. The air between them seemed to ripple with something he couldn’t quite explain. Something dangerous, tight and tense, ready to snap.

Achilles did his best to ignore it. 

“It needs to be cleaned and bound,” he said, examining the wound. He sat down, taking Patroclus and his hand with him. The fabric of his own tunic hissed and snapped when Achilles pulled at it.

“Achilles!” Patroclus gasped, watching as he tore a strip of cloth free and started wrapping it around his finger. “Your tunic-”

“I have others.” Achilles didn’t look up at him as he worked, avoiding his eyes, watching the blood seeping through the soft white fabric instead. Patroclus’ fingers were small and slender in his hold, bony, his fingertips cold against Achilles’. Patroclus hands were always colder than his own. After he was done, he found himself wishing he could hold them just a while longer, just to warm them. Just to feel them pressing against his palm, to memorise their shape.

It was a dangerous line Achilles walked. He could see it then, crystal clear. He wanted Patroclus. Not as a friend, not as a brother or a loyal companion. He wanted him. Like a man wanted another man.

He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to hold him. To have him, for his own. 

The thought thrilled as much as it scared him. What would his mother do, if she knew what crossed Achilles’ mind? Would she be angry with him? Would she be angry with Patroclus? Would she, perhaps in her fury, try to hurt him?

His anger swelled again, and something else, like despair, that curled over him in a wave and gripped him. He did not like it; it made him feel like there were stones tied to his feet, pulling him down. He released Patroclus’ hand, sitting back on his heels. “When Chiron comes back, ask him for his healing poultice,” he muttered, and turned from him. “It shouldn’t get infected.”

Achilles stood up slowly and, as he had done by that quiet beach all those years before, he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is almost finished and will probably be up within the next few days, as soon as I'm done editing it. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! Your comments make my day :)


	7. Painted Constellations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my take on the boys' first time together on Mount Pelion, from Achilles' POV. I debated long and hard whether I should cover this, since I think that M.M. did an excellent job of it in the book, but I still love this scene so much that in the end I relented. I think I'm sort of pushing the M rating with this chapter (it's not overly graphic, but perhaps a little bit more explicit than the book) but I'll keep the current rating for now, and perhaps change it to E later on, when we move on to... other things, heh.
> 
> Mild NSFW ahead. I hope you enjoy!

The first light of dawn filtered through his eyelashes, waking him.

Achilles opened his eyes slowly, merely a slit at first, then wider as he took in his surroundings. It was still early, and the world was just starting to rouse from its slumber. The jagged edges of the rose quartz crystals glittered in the light, shimmering rays of rosy sunshine that fell on the smooth cave floor and polished walls. In the distance, the song of a lark drifted with the morning breeze. 

Beside him, Patroclus breathed, slow and steady. 

He shifted to his side, shoulder digging in the soft mattress of the pallet. The pallet they shared. Odd, that they used to sleep apart before. His room back in the palace, with its two separate beds, its gilded nightstand, the rich rugs and tapestries on the walls seemed like a distant dream to him. He hadn’t missed it. The everyday luxuries that he’d once taken for granted felt superfluous to him now, the duties of a prince boring and stifling. He would gladly see his father again, but even so, he didn’t long to return. Patroclus would be the only one he would miss, he realised, had he not come after him. 

Patroclus was with him now, though, close enough to touch. His chest was rising and falling with his gentle breaths, his eyelids fluttering in his sleep. Lips moving soundlessly, in some distant dream conversation. Patroclus never lay very still, or very silent, when he slept. Sometimes, Achilles would wake up in the middle of the night to find him smiling, or humming, or sighing under his breath. He often stayed awake then for a little while, simply watching, simply listening, letting his even breathing lull him back to sleep.

Odd, that he’d ever thought of leaving him behind. 

Suddenly, the world outside the cave came to a standstilll. The birds went silent. The wind calmed, the leaves on the trees stopped rustling. Achilles knew well what that meant. He carefully pushed the blanket off him and rolled upright, padding towards the mouth of the cave. The skins fell shut behind him with a whisper, and he blinked once to help his eyes adjust to the light. 

“My son,” his mother said, holding her hand out to him.

He took it and followed her to the small clearing they usually went to talk. The babbling brook beside them gurgled merrily as it ran over the polished river stones. Achilles sat on a flat rock, drawing shapes on the soft sand with a long piece of driftwood. He enjoyed spending time with his mother, and he looked forward to his moments with her, yet that day his mind kept drifting away. He listened absently, with half an ear, as his mother talked about this and that, about the gods and their plans, about Phthia and the castle, about his destiny. His fate. 

Such a strange thing it was, to have one’s future laid out before them. Most people didn’t know what was to come, not until it was too late. He wondered what Patroclus would do, were he to receive a prophecy like that. Patroclus had never blindly submitted to his fate, not once, as long as he’d known him. Always pushing at its edges, testing its limits, even when he barely realised it himself. 

Tough yet soft. Gentle yet defiant. All his subtle incongruities. The strength, the fragility of him. Achilles smiled, despite himself.

“You are distracted today,” he heard his mother say. “What is the matter?”

With a sharp breath, Achilles turned to her, meeting her piercing gaze levelly. “Mother,” he said. “I’d like to ask you something.”

  
  
  
  


_She can’t see us here._

The thought latched itself onto his heart, making it hop in his chest. He didn’t waste a moment before returning to the cave after his mother was gone. He felt giddy, restless, a touch light-headed. She couldn’t see them there. How had he not thought to ask her before? He had to tell Patroclus. He would want to know. Wouldn’t he?

A wild thought crossed his mind. He could kiss him now. He could kiss Patroclus, and his mother would never know. His pulse thumped excitedly in his throat. He imagined kissing Patroclus, the flush that would creep up his cheeks, the surprise in his eyes, the wonder. He imagined him smiling at him, a little breathless, then leaning in to catch Achilles’ lips in a kiss of his own. It would be heavenly, wonderful, sublime; everything he’d ever wanted.

It felt too much to ask.

The entrance of the cave was just in view. It was still early, and Patroclus would be asleep. If he went in now, he would find him curled on his side, clutching Achilles’s pillow, seeking the warmth he’d left behind. Achilles would tickle his ear, or touch his nose to wake him, and Patroclus would open his eyes and gaze at him in silent confusion for a breath before his lips would widen in a smile. Lips he’d kissed, once, years ago.

He wondered whether Patroclus still remembered that. 

Achilles ducked as he passed under the hanging branches of a jasmine tree. It was in full bloom, the fragrant white blossoms heavy with morning dew. Patroclus liked the scent of jasmine. Back in Phthia, he would always place them in his clothes chest, tuck them in between the folds of the fabric to retain the scent. Jasmine and gardenias and myrtle blossoms, sometimes a sprig of rosemary too. Something he’d seen his _tithene_ do, he’d told Achilles, the woman that had helped raise him in Opus. He always smelt like spring, even in the depths of winter. 

Twirling a sprig full of jasmine flowers between his fingers, Achilles entered the cave and carefully sat at the edge of the pallet, beside Patroclus. He liked watching him when he slept, when there was no danger of being caught. He let his gaze glide over his deep set eyes, the delicate slope of his nose, the bow upper lip, the full bottom lip. The subtle curl at the edges of his mouth that always made him look thoughtful, as did the tiny, tiny wrinkle between his arched brows. Achilles held the jasmine flowers underneath Patroclus’ nose, biting his lip in anticipation. In a moment, his nostrils would flare and widen. Then, his brows would gather. And then his eyes would open, and-

Thick and dark eyelashes fluttered, revealing gentle, honey brown eyes.

“Good morning,” Achilles whispered. 

Patroclus’ lips widened a soft, slow spreading smile. “Good morning,” he replied in his hoarse, sleep-laced voice, pushing himself up on his elbows. “What’s this?”

“It’s for you.” He held it upright with the tips of his fingers. “Aren’t you going to take it?”

Patroclus huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes shining in delight as he plucked the blossoms. “Thank you.”

“The jasmine trees are blooming. I thought of you.” 

“You did?”

“Yes.” Achilles shifted on the pallet, laced his fingers together on his lap. His pulse had quickened, and it felt like he had just run a mile although he was sitting perfectly still. He cleared his throat. “I saw my mother today.”

Patroclus sat beside him, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. “I know. You were up early.” 

“She told me something.”

“What was it?” He uttered the question quickly, in a single breath, worry creasing his brow. 

_She can’t see us here._

The words lay at the tip of Achilles’ tongue, yet he couldn’t breathe them into being. His heart beat faster and faster, until it was a steady, rapid thrum in his chest. And Patroclus kept watching him. Always watching him, waiting, patient. Gentle. So gentle. 

Achilles reached out, his fingers closing about Patroclus’ forearm. Velvet smooth skin, reed slender bones, a quiet pulse beating underneath his fingertips. He dabbed his lips with his tongue, taking a deep breath. “She told me-”

The soft clop of Chiron’s hooves outside the cave made him stop abruptly. Patroclus’ gaze left Achilles’ to drift to the source of the sound, and the world suddenly seemed dimmer, cruder, jagged edges that dug into his skin. The centaur called their names in his deep, steady voice. His voice was always a comfort, yet now Achilles could barely stifle the irritation that sparked inside him. He shot up from the pallet and walked outside, the pelts snapping behind him. 

“Chiron,” he said, somewhat more sharply than he’d intended. Patroclus wasn’t far behind. 

“These herbs need to be pounded into a paste before they wilt,” the centaur told them, handing them each a basket full of rosemary and chamomile, dandelion and nettle. He walked towards the cave, and they both followed him, albeit reluctantly. Patroclus shot him a glance over his shoulder, curious and examining. 

Achilles glanced away. What he had to say, it would have to wait.   
  
  
  


The notes from his lyre coiled around him, sweet like birdsong, vibrating in the enclosed space. Achilles found no comfort in the music, in the simple act of playing, like he usually did. His mind was elsewhere. 

What he had to say, it couldn’t wait any longer.

The moment he saw the centaur’s eyelids drooping, his breaths deepening, Achilles stood up, setting his lyre to the side. “Patroclus and I should leave you to your rest, Chiron.” He avoided Patroclus’ inquisitive glance as he turned towards the cave. What he had to say, he had to say to him alone, yet when Patroclus looked at him like this, he doubted his own ability to control himself.

Achilles hurriedly washed his face and neck over the small wash basin. He took his clothes off and slithered under covers, eyes set on the ceiling above him. His fingers were tapping a steady rhythm on his stomach when Patroclus entered the cave, footsteps careful and precise, a doe making its way through lush forest land. Achilles listened absently to the water droplets falling in the basin as Patroclus washed himself as well, watched the muscles of his back moving under his skin. Soft skin, smooth like rose petals. Begging to be touched. 

“My mother-” he started, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. “My mother can’t see us here.”

“Hm?” 

His gaze snapped to the ceiling when Patroclus turned around. Achilles wetted his lips. 

“I asked her if she can see us here.” He took a breath. “She says, she cannot.”

“Oh.” Patroclus stood very still. It felt like a lifetime later that he set the washcloth down and approached the pallet with measured steps. Achilles studied the painted constellations on the cave wall with keen interest as Patroclus undressed himself, listened as he folded his tunic and laid it to the side. He slithered under the covers beside him, and Achilles’ skin prickled when the cool air touched it. Soon, the warmth from Patroclus’ body reached his own, like a gentle embrace. 

Neither of them moved. Achilles counted his heartbeats in the silence, the flow or Patroclus' breaths. Everything was perfectly still, save for Achilles' blood that coursed swiftly beneath his skin, hot to boiling.

He shifted to his side, and Patroclus turned to look at him. Soft brown eyes, wide in something that looked like fear, like anticipation, met his in the warm candlelight.

Achilles leaned forward.

It was a small, almost imperceptible movement. Achilles closed the distance between them in a single breath, his lips meeting Patroclus' without error. Achilles shivered when his mouth opened under his own on a silent gasp then closed again, sweetly, like a nightflower at the break of dawn. He moved closer, pressing against him. Impatience and wonder coursed in his blood, hot like blazing embers. Patroclus’ hand trembled as it smoothed down the length of Achilles' arm, his sides, gathering him closer still, until it felt like their hearts were beating against each other’s like one. 

The covers had tangled around their legs, and Achilles tossed them aside. He suddenly couldn't bear the feel of fabric on him. He wanted nothing else but Patroclus’ skin on his skin, his hands on him, his breath mingling with his. Countless times had Achilles seen him bare, many more his gaze had traced the lines of his body, the stretch of his skin over his muscles, the line of soft dark fur that trailed down his stomach, his navel. His hands followed those same pathways, pathways that he knew by sight as well as his own; now he was learning them anew by touch, by smell.

He reached down between them and took him in his hand, his palm curling around the hardened length. Patroclus sighed, arching into his touch. A blush crept up his chest, his neck, pink and honey gold like a sunset. Long fingers tangled in Achilles’ hair, tugging gently; Achilles lapped his own name from Patroclus’ tongue when he whispered it. 

“Do not stop,” Patroclus breathed against his lips, trembling. “Don’t-”

“I will not.” Achilles kissed his cheeks, his chin, his eyes, his open mouth. He licked the rapid thrum of his pulse, traced the tendons of his delicate throat with his teeth, flicked his tongue over a dark nipple that pebbled in the cool air. “I’ll never stop,” he murmured into the dip of his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his blood under his warmed up skin. 

_I won’t stop,_ he thought, _ever again, nor shall I ever let anything stop me from being with you._

They moved in tandem, waves crashing against the shore, then retreating, only to pour forth and meet once more. His hand moved firmly as he watched, entranced, the pleasure in Patroclus’ features, the way it swelled. It brightened his cheeks, made his breath tremble. The moon and stars reflecting in his eyes. It rose and soared, ever higher, until it blossomed in Achilles’ hand. A muffled cry broke free from Patroclus’ lips, only to crash against his own.

No sooner had Achilles released him, their lips bruised and raw from their kisses, than Patroclus’ fingers danced swiftly down his chest, his belly, before closing carefully around him. Achilles lay very still; his pulse was thumping in his ears as those fingers tightened, holding him fast. It was strange, having Patroclus kiss him like this, touch him- hands that had held his own, arms that had wrapped around him when they’d played and fought and wrestled. Patroclus lips were on his ear, the side of his neck, the curve of his shoulder; Achilles could feel his body coming alive under his touch. His eyes burnt and he closed them, his hips moving on their own to meet that pressure, that heat. 

“Patroclus,” Achilles panted as he pulled his mouth up to his once more, drawing breath from his lungs, “Patroclus-”

His pleasure rose until his body felt like a dam, struggling to keep back a rushing river. Light, white hot and blinding burned behind his eyelids as he shuddered, melting in Patroclus’ arms like wax over a candle flame.

Time stretched languidly around them, fuzzy and indistinct, as they both caught their breaths. They slowly peeled away from each other, and it was only then that Achilles felt the chillness of the night air. His skin was sticky with sweat, his hair clinging to the nape of his neck. He lay on his back and swallowed thickly as a shiver coursed through him. He was suddenly afraid to meet Patroclus’ gaze, to break the silence that had settled between them. In a moment of bravery, he turned to look at him, and found him watching. 

“I did not think-” he started, then paused. Patroclus’ eyes were wide, the trembling light of their lamp catching in their corners. “I did not think we would ever-” A long moment passed that Achilles scrambled for words, words true enough to encompass what he felt. 

_I did not think you’d ever want me,_ he thought silently, _like this, like I want you. That we would ever be here, like this, like I wanted us to be._

“Neither did I,” Patroclus whispered, as if he had heard his thoughts.

“Are you sorry?” The question was out of him before he could stop it. 

Patroclus’ answer was quick, immediate and sure, like an arrow. “I am not.”

“I am not either.” Achilles released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding as he reached out to him in the half dark, threading their fingers together. He leaned close enough to bury his nose in his hair, to take a deep breath of his smell. Musk and clean sweat, the scent of early jasmine blossoms mingling with that of warm, wet earth. 

“Patroclus,” he whispered into his skin, the sounds rolling gently off his tongue. Patroclus hummed and relaxed in his hold, curling against him like a dove in the cup of his palm. 

_We’ll never be parted_ , Achilles promised himself, drawing him close as he drifted into a light and blissful sleep. _I’ll never let anything keep me from you, never, so long as I draw breath._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tithene_ : a nurse or a nanny, that helped with the upbringing of children in Ancient Greece.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you liked this. Please let me know what you thought in the comments, your feedback always makes my day, and helps me gauge what you guys like and if I'm going in the right direction. Also, let me know if you'd like to see more chapters like this going forward.
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! <3


	8. Like Gods, at the Dawning of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Back with a new chapter, this one from Patroclus' POV. That small scene in the book, where they go to the stream after The Night™ and swim and bathe and "learn the lines of each others' bodies anew"? The one where they are like gods at the dawning of the world, and their joy is so bright they can see nothing else but the other? Yep. That one. I couldn't just let this one go like that, so have a chapter full of fluffy sweetness and gentle smut with the world's happiest boys :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

I woke up with my nose buried in Achilles’ hair, my chest pressed up against his back. I did not remember falling asleep like that. I must have curled against him in my sleep without realising it, I thought, and panic gripped me. I almost pulled away from him- what if he rose to see me like this? What if he’d seen already, what if-

It took a moment for me to remember that he had done the same, only hours before. I could still feel the ghost touch of his lips against my own, his fingers that had tangled in my hair, that had pulled me close. I remembered the things I’ve said, the sounds I’d made. My cheeks flushed and my skin warmed, but I did not dare unfold from where I was lying beside him, for fear of waking him, of the spell that had settled between us finally breaking. Achilles was soundless in his sleep, his chest rising and falling beneath my arm, his narrow ribs contracting and expanding. Each breath came like the sea, like the waves that lapped at the sand only to retreat again.

The sea, I whispered. She couldn't see us here. Thetis, the person that terrified me most of all, couldn't see us here.

I pressed myself further against him, pulled him flush to me. Felt the movement of his breaths in my own lungs, the beating on his heart in my own chest, took a deep breath of his scent- almonds and honey, musk and clean sweat, sandalwood and fresh soil. Him. 

He shifted on the pallet, turned around and smiled at me, humming sleepily. His hand found my own in the rose-grey light of dawn, his fingers threading through mine. My pulse skipped as my fingers tightened over his as if by instinct. We lay like this for a while, simply touching, simply holding, breathing each other's air. 

“Good morning,” he murmured, his lips moving against my cheek. I could only smile. My throat was tight with the happiness that swelled and rose within me, like a cotton cloud. I kissed the fair skin of his brow, and held him close to me as we watched the world come awake around us.

When the sun had finally risen, we rose with it, making our way to Chiron and the breakfast he had prepared for us. We ate hastily -I only had a bite of dried fig and a piece of cheese, my stomach was too tight with giddiness for me to eat anything else- and then we went to the stream. We washed in the crisp waters, then sat on the grass, letting the sunlight warm our bodies and the soft breeze dry us. Achilles lay next to me, golden and resplendent. He blinked his eyes open and looked at me, and, for once, I didn't drag my gaze away. I could look at him openly now, I realised, without worrying that he would see, that he would bolt like a startled deer if he took notice of my affection. The thought moved me and filled me. To look at him, without fear, and to be looked at in return- it was a miracle. 

Achilles' gaze was sharp and inquisitive, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Your hair," he said, tilting his head to the side. "I like the way it curls around your face, how the ends wisp over your brow. Have I told you that before?"

He reached out and smoothed a strand away from my forehead. My skin prickled with his touch. "You have not," I whispered.

He propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes unabashedly gliding over my naked form, from the top of my head to my toes and back. His fingers skimmed my brow, my cheek, the hollow of my throat. Stayed for a breath under my collarbone, then moved slowly down, following the dip in my chest. "Your freckles," he said. "There's a lot of them."

"Is there?" I blinked at him, my breath growing shallow. I could already feel warmth blossoming within me under that curious gaze. 

Achilles nodded, drawing smooth lines between each tiny dark point on my skin. He counted them, one by one. Two under my collarbone, one on my neck. Four on my stomach, two near my navel. A cluster of them on my shoulder. A small one, barely visible, on the inside of my thigh. I felt breathless with that slow, quiet exploration of my body, with the tenderness with which those slender fingers that I knew so well touched me, as if I were a new instrument to be learnt. He studied my form with the same razor sharp focus he applied to everything else; fingers that plucked the strings of his lyre with care and precision were now roaming freely over me, now pausing, then gliding, then pausing again to examine something new, something he’d never noticed before and that now fascinated him. 

It felt odd, to be the object of such intense observation. More than odd, it felt natural, when it came from him. It felt right. Before I knew it, my hands had also strayed from my sides to smooth over the muscles of his arms, to follow the curve of his shoulder, to rest in the hollow of his throat. The tendons moved gently under my palm when he turned to look at me, twin shards of jade peering at me under his heavy lids. Strands of golden sunlight caught in his damp locks, in the drops of water that still lingered on his skin. I leaned close, brushing my nose over his; his breath warmed me, made my skin prickle. Plush, pillow soft lips parted readily under my own. I could do nothing but surrender myself to their smooth, rhythmic movement. 

His lips moved lower, tracing the line of my jaw. I shivered with the gentleness with which they mapped my skin. I leaned into his touch when his tongue, cool and slick, brushed over my collarbone, following that line that he so liked to touch. After this, I mirrored his movements. I had quickly found out that there was a rhythm he liked when I kissed him, that would make his breath come faster, the pupils of his eyes to swell, his lids to grow heavy. I threaded my fingers through his hair, twisting them between his damp strands, marvelling at the fact that I could touch him as I had longed to touch him for days, nights, months on end.

I half expected him to turn away. Every time I looked at him, I anxiously awaited the moment when he would glance away from me, as we had both done so many times before. Every time I touched him, I half expected him to move out of my grasp, to shun me, to cast me aside. Yet, with every second that passed, those thoughts drifted further and further from my mind. He was there, and the desire in his gaze was as plain as my own must be, and he welcomed my touch as I did his own. My heart fluttered in my chest like a newborn bird, struggling to take flight.

Before I knew it, his mouth had moved lower, caressing my stomach, the tip of his nose brushing my belly button. The flicker of amusement in Achilles’ gaze when he glanced up at me made my cheeks warm even more.

“There’s something I want to try,” he said, the edges of his lips curling upwards in his cat smile. 

“You do?” 

The smile widened. I tilted my head to the side and sighed, watching as Achilles moved lowered still. His palms were smooth and flat on my stomach, holding me as his mouth traced the dark line of hair that led to my navel. My skin prickled, every hair standing on end when I felt his breath brushing my already hardening length. Then, his lips were on me, enveloping me in wet, velvet heat. 

I gasped, my breath hitching in my throat. I had often heard the boys back in the palace talking about this, about this and this that the serving girls had done with them. These conversations never held much interest for me, my mind always slipping away like an eel. Yet now, as Achilles’ mouth closed around me, his lips sliding slowly down then up again, my skin felt full to bursting, heat bubbled in my core. I arched helplessly into his touch as he took me in deeper, holding my gaze all the while. I felt caught, pinned in place by the intensity of those piercing eyes, and I did not dare to look away. I was wading in seas of green and gold, swept by the currents, drawn ever deeper into the unknown with every swipe of Achilles’ tongue. I crested on a wave, then tipped over a razor sharp edge; the dappled light that filtered through the trees seemed just that little bit brighter, the mountain air around us crisper when electric pleasure spiralled through every vein. Achilles held me fast as I shuddered, his touch anchoring me through the waves of ecstasy that rolled over me. 

I was breathless when he finally released me, pressing soft kisses along my stomach and my chest on his way up. I wearily blinked my eyes open to look at him as he hovered over me. His beauty was breathtaking, but more than that, there was a purity to him, like the first flakes of whitest snow. A wild orchid swaying with the breeze in a field of tall mountain grass had less grace than he did; the drops of dew on velvet flower petals, shimmering with the early light of dawn, would seem dull and lifeless compared to the golden flecks in his bright eyes. 

I reached up, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear, caressing the perfect curve of its shell as I did. My throat tightened, full with the words that I had kept from him for so long, and my eyes burned with unshed tears. “I have never been more happy,” I whispered.

He smiled at me and the warmth of it made me shiver. He leaned down to brush his lips, flushed and glistening, over my own. I sighed when I tasted the sweetness of his tongue, and something else, something sharp and salty, fresh oysters and sea-bitters. 

“This is how it will always be between us.” There was satisfaction in Achilles’ gaze, and fierce certainty in the way his fingers twined through my own. “There’s nothing else in the world but you and me.” 

“Yes.” I breathed the word against his mouth, giddy and effervescent with joy, wrapping my arms and legs around him to pull him close. As close as I could. “Just you and me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! To those subscribed to this fic, thank you so much for being so kind and patient with me while I struggled through a little bit of a writer's block this past month or so. The next few chapters are already written and just awaiting editing, so they will be up fairly soon. Expect yet more fluff, as well as a little bit of angst as the boys return to Phthia soon ;w;
> 
> Kudos and comments of any shape and size are greatly appreciated! I love hearing your thoughts, and your feedback always helps me see what you guys like to read (as well as making this humble writer's days that much brighter!) 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading xoxo


	9. Moments in Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I am Johaerys and I'm addicted to writing fluff with the sweetest boys in the whole wide world, someone send HALP (but only if it comes in the form of encouragement to write MORE fluff, offers of real halp will not be considered at this time, thank you)
> 
> Please enjoy!! <3

The moments Achilles spends with Patroclus are precious to him. He gathers them all, one by one, like pearls on a string.

The owls hidden in the trees beyond their cave hooted softly into the night as Achilles lay next to Patroclus on their narrow pallet, catching his breath. The air around them was heavy and sweet like overripe fruit, the sheets tangled around their feet. The light of their lone candle cast trembling shadows along the domed wall. 

_How long have you felt like this?_ Achilles had asked Patroclus, his arm resting on his stomach, moving with his breaths. He watched him carefully now, committing his features to memory, the way the shadows played across his cheek, pooled in the hollow of his eye, carved the delicate slope of his nose. 

“I’ve loved you ever since I laid eyes on you, I suppose,” Patroclus whispered. His finger traced the side of Achilles’ face, cool and soft like lily-of-the-valley petals at dawn. His lips were still flushed, his voice slightly hoarse from passion.

Achilles blinked, puzzled. “You did?” He propped himself on one elbow to glance down at him, lying as he was beneath him, his dark brown curls a halo around his head. “I thought you didn’t care for me at all. You used to glare at me.”

“Did I? I remember no such thing.” Patroclus blushed, his lips curling in a cheeky smile. When Achilles narrowed his eyes in puzzlement, he chuckled softly. “I didn’t know what to make of you. You had everything. I had nothing, yet I could still find no flaw in you, nothing for my anger to latch on.” His eyes flashed then, the flickering light reflecting in them like twin flames. “It was different, when I got to know you. That was when I realised that my search for things to dislike in you was pointless. So I couldn’t help but love you instead.” 

“You make it sound as if you had no choice,” Achilles said, half in jest, yet worry pulsed within him while he waited for Patroclus’ reply. The thought of Patroclus having no choice but to love him at once warmed and chilled him. Blind adoration was reserved for gods, and what they all believed was owed to them. His mother had often told him that most men were bound to admire him, because of his divine birth. Achilles didn’t want that. He wanted Patroclus to give him his heart of his own accord, as Achilles was offering him his.

Patroclus stayed silent for a long time. Just when Achilles thought he would never answer, he finally spoke. “No,” he said quietly. “Before I met you, I thought I had no say in anything. You were the one who showed me that I had a choice in everything.”

The quiet solemnity of Patroclus’ voice stirred something within him that he couldn’t quite explain. He wrapped his arms around him and leaned forward, catching his lips between his own, threading his fingers through his hair. Patroclus was soft and pliant in his hold, but Achilles could feel the metal that hid deep within, the steadfastness of his will. If there was anyone in the world that could stand beside him as an equal, then that was him. 

Achilles pulled him close, so close he could feel his heart beating against his own, letting Patroclus’ soft breathing lull him to sleep. 

_One._

  
  


Patroclus’ breaths were coming swiftly, almost panting, as they climbed the steep path to the olive grove, on the north side of the mountain. It was past the stream, past the clearing of maple trees with their burnt orange canopy of leaves. The summer was just coming to an end, and the leaves on the centuries old trees were just starting to darken. Whenever Chiron sent them to chop firewood, they always went there. They hadn’t had as much need for wood that summer- their winter reserves had been enough for their daily cooking- but the cold during autumn nights on the mountain was often biting. After their chores were done, they would sit under the olive trees’ dappled shade and let the clear breeze dry the dampness on their skin, the merry trill of the birds overhead to ease the rapid beating of their hearts.

Patroclus ducked under some low hanging branches, following the old path amidst the tall grasses and overgrown weeds sprouting from the soil, undisturbed by human presence. His axe was hanging by his leather belt, its handle dressed with tough leather. Achilles let his gaze follow the lines of Patroclus’ frame, the light coloured fabric of his tunic, almost transparent now, damp with the sweat on his back. His face was flushed from the exertion, the skin on his brow glistening, tan and golden brown. 

Patroclus glanced at him over his shoulder, having noticed him watching. He still blushed ever so slightly whenever he caught Achilles’ eyes on him. Achilles liked watching the colour that crept up his cheeks, the warmth in his eyes. Sometimes, he could still see the surprise in his gaze, split seconds before he averted it. It was almost instinctive, no doubt from all the years he’d had to hide it. Yet, with every day that passed, their bond grew stronger, their desire bolder. Achilles didn’t even think before threading his fingers through his when they walked, before drawing him close for a quick kiss in between the chores and tasks Chiron gave them. Things he had often dreamed about, yet never thought he could grasp in earnest.

“Where shall we start?” Patroclus asked, bringing his open palm over his eyes to shield them from the midday glare. They were standing at the edge of the meadow, overlooking the clearing. “That tree over there looks easy enough to cut down.”

“I have a better idea,” Achilles said, taking his hand. Patroclus’ breath hitched just a little when Achilles pulled him close. His lips were warm and plush when Achilles bent down to kiss them, his dark brown curls slightly damp with sweat when Achilles’ threaded his fingers through them. 

“What about the firewood?” he asked breathlessly against Achilles’ lips, even as he let himself be nudged back towards an oak tree. 

“Later.” Achilles’ teeth closed over Patroclus’ pillowy bottom lip as he pressed him against the tree trunk. Their kisses were sometimes sweet and tender, others passionate and almost desperate, but they always lit the same fire in Achilles’ heart. He liked the feel of Patroclus’ breath on his lips, the pressure of his body against his own. He knew the curves of his body now, all the little things he’d never noticed before; the dip in the center of his pillowy bottom lip, the tiny pinpricks of orange and gold hidden in the deep brown of his eyes, the way his pulse thrummed in the hollow of his throat whenever Achilles was near. His sighs, the little sounds he made, the way he held him, that never failed to make Achilles’ blood stir in his veins. 

Achilles pulled back to look at him, brushing his thumb over Patroclus’ lower lip. Patroclus’ lids were heavy with want when he glanced up at him. His colour was high, his cheekbones warm and rosy, the life pulsating just beneath his skin.

Patroclus laughed, a sound soft and clear like bell chimes, when Achilles’ gaze lingered on him for a long moment, steady and unmoving. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Achilles smiled. It surprised him still, sometimes, how much they’d both changed since they’d first met. They’d been but children then, yet now they were men grown. Achilles let his finger trail lower, caressing the apple of Patroclus’ throat, then lower still, following the line of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, broader now and stronger than it had ever been. He felt Patroclus shiver under his touch, his smooth skin prickle and grow warm.

“I think you’re really beautiful, Patroclus.”

Patroclus’ breath caught. The pearl white bite of his teeth flashed over his bottom lip, the flush on his cheeks darkening, but this time, he didn’t draw his eyes away. “Kiss me,” he said in a breathless whisper.

And Achilles did. Amidst the blood red poppies and the gently swinging daisies, in a square of gossamer sunlight, Achilles lay down with his Patroclus. 

_Two._

  
  
  


After they both lay sated, Achilles watched the intricate lacework of light and shadows that fell on Patroclus’ chest, his smooth stomach. His eyes were closed and his expression was serene, but his mouth had this contemplative curl to it, as it always did when something troubled him. "What are you thinking about?" 

Patroclus’ lids fluttered open to reveal gentle brown eyes. “Chiron,” he replied, his voice taking on a slow, thoughtful lilt. In it, Achilles could read more than Patroclus had said; he could hear his worry about their mentor finding out about them, and along with him, Achilles’ father, his mother. 

Achilles gazed at him quietly for a moment, considering. They had had this conversation before, many times. They were valid concerns, as reasonable as any other, though Achilles only thought of them for Patroclus’ sake. He didn’t care what people would do if they found out about them. He had sworn to himself, the very night they had lain together, that he would never let anything come between them; not Chiron with his wise words, not his father, not even his mother, with all the power and wisdom her divine blood granted her. Achilles wouldn’t let Patroclus go, not for all of the world. 

With his fingers, Achilles followed lazily the dark dots that lay scattered across Patroclus’ dewy olive skin like constellations. “Do you care if they are angry?”

Patroclus shifted on his side to face him. Achilles could see his mind working, the gears churning, ever so quietly, methodically. He had a neat and careful mind, Patroclus did. “No,” he replied at last.

“Good.” Achilles closed his eyes and sighed when Patroclus caressed the side of his face, pushing a strand of his hair behind his ear. When he glanced back at him, there were pinpoints of light moving gently across his face, twinkling like stars as the wind moved. When they lay like this together, Achilles could spend a thousand moments, hours, a lifetime just gazing at him, noticing every small detail as if he was about to paint his likeness in fresco, to have and to hold for all time. Everyone in the world would know of him then, of them. One day, Achilles would be famous, so his mother had said; amongst the heroes of old the most renowned. The thought stirred no awe or fascination within him. It was just the way things were. So many men had risen to great heights, only to fall soon after. Hercules had slain the Hydra and the Nemean lion, only for jealous Hera to steal his wits and lead him to kill his wife and children. Meleager had killed the famed Calydonian boar, but after a bloody dispute with his uncles, had been killed by his own mother. Theseus had defeated the Minotaur and returned to Athens a hero, only to be thrown off the cliff of a distant island years later, after having lost the favour of his people.

Achilles had often thought of them and their stories, had tried to find the similarities between their lives and his own. Yet, every time, he returned to the same conclusion. None of those great heroes had what Achilles had. None of them had someone like Patroclus by their side. Their fates were linked inexorably, twin flames from the same fire. Achilles would do anything within his power to make Patroclus happy. No matter what came, as long as Patroclus was with him, Achilles’ fate would be one of happiness, as well as of glory. 

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. 

Patroclus looked at him quizzically, an amused smile already playing at the edges of his lips. “What secret?”

“I’ll be the first hero to be happy.” He took Patroclus’ hand in his, threaded their fingers together. “Swear it.”

“Why me?”

Achilles beamed, satisfaction burning bright within him for having finally solved the riddle. “Because you’re the reason.” 

The smile on Patroclus’ lips widened and slipped sideways, filled with warmth and adoration. The sunlight painted the side of his face golden, caught in the chestnut brown highlights in his dark, unruly curls. When Patroclus smiled like that, Achilles wanted to reach up towards the heavens, pluck the sun from its place in the sky like a ripe pear from a bough and lay it at his feet, a sacred offering and a testament to their immortal bond. Their love. 

“I swear it,” Patroclus whispered.

_Three._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you, but seeing them happy and in love mends my soul ;w; 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this extra little sprinkling of happiness before the boys return to Phthia! I have to admit, it's been a little hard for me to move on from this bit because their time in Pelion is the perfect little pocket of bliss before things go sideways (I hope I'm not the only one!) Of course, there are plenty of moments of happiness and respite ahead for them, and I can't wait to explore them all and share them with you as we follow them along on their journey.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought in the comments, I love hearing from you! As always, thank you so, so much for reading <3


	10. Rosemary and Clove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! This chapter follows the boys after returning to Phthia. I know that *technically* they only stayed there for a night, but I tweaked canon juuust a little to make them stay longer. I took the liberty of expanding upon some of the myths surrounding Paris and Helen's abduction, as the Greeks may have seen it, and which was never touched upon in TSOA. I hope you enjoy!

The first few nights after we'd returned to Phthia, I could get no sleep.

Even lying next to Achilles I would toss and turn, restless, until he'd murmur groggily in his sleep for me to stop. I would sit up on the bed then, careful not to disturb him, with my back pressed against the smooth stone wall, and watch the sky turn for black to grey to gold, alight with the first fiery fingers of dawn. The air felt strange and different in Phthia. Heavy. The salt in it made my skin itch. It made me long for the crisp mountain breeze, the rustling of the centuries old maple trees, the chill waters of the stream we used to bathe. It reminded me of Thetis, of the cruel twist of her mouth, her dark, inhuman eyes and the hate that burned in them whenever her gaze fell upon me. It reminded me that, away from Chiron’s protection, she could see me. She could see us.

I watched Achilles as he slept, and longed for the trembling light of our single candle, for the way his silk-smooth golden skin looked in the rosy light reflected from the quartz crystals in the cave. The nights we would lie on our pallet and whisper the names of the constellations to each other, trace them in the air with our fingertips. 

Not too long now, Achilles had promised. A few weeks more, a trip to Mycenae for Achilles to declare that we wouldn’t be following the army to Troy, and then we would return to the mountain, to our cave and Chiron’s gentle tutelage. I wouldn’t have to fight somebody else’s war, and neither would Achilles. 

A stray streak of sunlight filtered through the open window. It fell on Achilles's closed, petal-soft eyelids, his straight, aristocratic nose. The nose wrinkled, and the eyes fluttered open, and Achilles gazed up at me, still bleary from sleep. "Awake already?" he murmured in his sleep-laced voice. I nodded. He let out a soft sigh and stretched like a large feline, the muscles in his arms tightening, his slender back arching. With a yawn, he sat up next to me. "Is something amiss?"

"I miss our painted constellations," I said quietly. 

Achilles gazed at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the soft light. Then, his arms came around me, pulling me close. “I miss them too.” He let out a soft sigh and dropped his chin on my shoulder. "We can paint them on the ceiling here, if you'd like."

The thought warmed me. I shook my head. "It wouldn’t be the same."

"I know." He sighed again, pulling me closer. "I know."

We stayed like this for a long while, nestled in each other's warmth, listening as the foreign sounds of the palace stirring awake reached us. 

  
  


The palace was abuzz with gossip about the impending war, about Helen and the shamed husband she had left behind. Everywhere I went, I would hear the rumours spoken in hushed voices, the worry and the excitement that mingled in their eyes. They talked about Paris, his renowned beauty, his soft hands and even softer temperament that so matched that of the rest of his countrymen, mellowed after decades of peace. But it wasn’t just this that caused rumours to soar in the court. A bard had recently arrived in the palace from far Piraeus, the largest port in Greece. He had heard stories from sailors come from every corner of the Aegean sea, and claimed he knew this to be true: Paris had not stolen Helen’s heart and wits with his grace and soft manners alone. He was Aphrodite’s favourite, and the goddess had had a hand in bringing this misfortune upon the Mycenaeans. 

Hera, Athena and Aphrodite had been locked in bitter dispute for years, arguing which of the three was the most beautiful. They had appeared to Paris one warm spring day when he’d been walking through the palace of Troy’s expansive gardens, and asked him for his counsel. The gods had long before taken notice of him, because of his beauty, his intelligence and his noble birth, but even he could not decide who was the fairest. The goddesses, then, had thought to bribe him. Hera had offered him power and riches, ownership of all of Europe and Asia. Athena had skill in battle to offer, powers to put all other warriors to shame. Aphrodite had promised him one thing, and one thing only: the love of beautiful Helen, among the mortal women the fairest and most gentle. Paris, of course, had chosen her. 

The tale had made the Greeks sneer. My people disliked such men; perfumed, delicate, soft spoken. Besides, who in their right minds would pass up the chance to become the greatest warrior or the wealthiest king? Coward, they called him. A weakling that had shamed Menelaus and betrayed the sacred rite of _philoxenia_ , the Mycenaeans’ hospitality. Hellas was astir, a boiling cauldron.

I listened to all the rumours, all the tales, as I walked through the palace corridors. Achilles was not with me. His father had insisted he be present in the councils with his generals, where they talked about the impending war, the soldiers, the army. I walked the palace halls, the hours drifting by slow and dull. I looked for ways to make myself useful, but could find none. There was no need for me to go searching for medicinal herbs, to hang them to dry, to grind them into a paste. My food was prepared and provided for me, so I did not have to go hunting or foraging for edible plants and fruit. I was no soldier, so I had no place in the training yard, even if I had felt like training. I could only glide by, and hope to go unnoticed. 

The truth was, no one paid much mind to me, at least not openly. Some days I was even thankful that talk of war had drawn attention away from my and Achilles’ return, even if it was only for a little. It had not gone unnoticed that he always insisted on me sitting beside him at the large dining table, a place of honour reserved only for a Prince’s closest allies and friends. Or that we still slept in the same room, although we were both men grown now. Such practices were overlooked in children and young boys, but once one had grown fully into manhood, he was expected to grow out of his fondness for his male friends as well. The servants, the nobles that strolled about the castle grounds, the soldiers that I had once trained with as a boy would all eye me sideways, and I knew they wondered: why would Achilles choose someone like me for his loyal companion? Why not someone else, someone strong and fierce in battle, that would protect Achilles from harm and share his spoils, someone with promise of glory, someone that could be, if not his equal, then something very close? 

_He must know tricks,_ I heard some guards whispering to each other one day, grinning amongst themselves. _Slender and lithe, good with his hands._ They paled when they noticed me passing, standing hastily at attention. I pretended to ignore them.   
  


That evening, a rich feast had been prepared in his honour, one of the many to celebrate his return. The air in the great hall was heavy and sticky with humidity and the scent of sweat, cooked meat and wine, abuzz with conversation and song, and once more I wished for the nights when we could hear nothing but our breathing, the sighing of the mountain wind and the hushed trill of crickets beyond our cave. 

I sat next to Achilles on the table, though I doubted anyone would be looking at me when he was near. There was something about Achilles that demanded attention, even when he did nothing but sit leisurely on his ornate chair and swirl the wine in his goblet with casual disinterest. His robes were made of purple cloth, the rich hue complementing his tanned skin. The golden circlet in his hair seemed pale and dull compared to the lustre of the locks that framed his face. His shoulders were straight, his eyes keen and flashing like polished jade. His lips, twin peony petals, lightly stained red by the dark wine.

He had always had this glamour; wherever he went, whatever he did, he sparkled, drew the eye. It was something I had almost forgotten in those years we’d spent in Pelion, with no adoring eyes to fall on him— other than my own. Now, everyone in the room drank in the grace and confidence with which he moved; his cheeks had none of the childish roundness they used to before we’d left for Pelion, the line of his jaw was sharp as if carved with sculptor’s tools, the muscles in his arms strong and defined. When we’d left Phthia, he’d been but a child. Now he was a man, and he was tall, broad of shoulder, and more fearsome in his beauty than he had ever been. Nobles and serving girls, soldiers and cupbearers alike would peer at him in awe, curiosity or fascination, trying to catch his eye or a word of his in passing, like parched earth lusting after rain. 

I let out a soft sigh into my wine goblet when one of the cupbearers, a tall and willowy youth with his rich dark locks gathered in a braid at the nape of his neck passed me by to fill Achilles’ cup for the third time. His almond-shaped hazel eyes flicked brazenly towards Achilles’ as the wine splashed and swirled within the confines of the bronze goblet while he poured it. Achilles paid him little mind, talking quietly with his childhood tutor, Phoenix, instead. An absent-minded nod of thanks was enough to make the boy’s cheeks flush, his head to tilt coyly to the side as he retreated. He returned to his post, and I could see the envy that flashed in the other cupbearers’ eyes that he’d been granted such an honour.

It wasn’t jealousy, exactly, that made the wine turn sour in my mouth. I knew how Achilles must look to everyone around me, how the allure and mystery surrounding his name, his divine birth and the prophecy that dogged him had only grown in the years we’d been away. That Peleus and his advisors wished for Achilles to lead the armies to Troy was no secret to anyone, despite his declaration that he would not. They had all waited for years for the moment that Achilles’ talent and rare skill in battle would unfold. They were in themselves a spectacle, the events that would finally lead him to fulfilling the prophecy that had been foretold since the moment of his birth, that he would be the greatest warrior this world had ever seen. The people around me could only see the effortless grace in his limbs that would serve him so well in battle, his spears that would never miss their mark, the flashing edge of his sword that would never dull. They would all stand back and watch with keen interest as Achilles would leave death and ruin in his wake, as his delicate hands would be stained crimson.

My stomach tightened at the thought. No one saw him the way I did. No one saw his slender fingers, which were meant to hold a lyre as well as a sword, the sweetness of his boyish pride, the warm mischief of his smiles. To our people, he was the one that would lead them all to glory; _Aristos Achaion_ , the best of the Greeks. Achilles, my bright, fair Achilles, belonged to everyone and no one, not truly. Not to the gods, not to the Greeks, not to me. Not even to himself. 

Achilles turned to me, stirring me out of my grim thoughts as he set his goblet beside mine on the table. His jaw was locked, his gaze roaming the hall with cool detachment. I could see that he had grown weary of talk, of his father and his friends, of all those that vied for his attention. “Let’s go outside,” he told me, leaning close to my ear. His breath smelled of wine and spices, warming the side of my neck.

I blinked, taken aback. A shiver ran down my spine at our proximity; it was the closest we’d come to each other since that morning. “We can’t leave,” I replied quietly, careful not to be overheard by Peleus who was sitting close by. “This feast is in your honour.”

“And my honour has grown weary.” He scanned the room with keen eyes, his gaze gliding straight past the dancers that had come from Delphoi, boys and girls fair and lithe like water snakes. Achilles barely glanced in their direction. He pushed his chair back and turned to his father. “We are going.”

Peleus did not approve, I could see, but he only looked at his son with a blank expression. “Will you not stay a while longer? Antinoros wishes to make a toast after the dance.”

“I am tired, and so is Patroclus.”

Peleus let out a soft sigh. He looked terribly weary all of a sudden. “As you wish, my boy.” 

We left the stuffy dining hall behind. The cool night air was a pleasant change to the heavy smells of wine and spices, of roast lambs and quails. I took a deep breath, tilting my head this way and that, bringing my arms over my head to stretch my muscles. “Much better,” I sighed. Achilles’ fingers threaded through mine when I brought my arms down again, guiding me forward. He was not leading me to our room, nor to the small inner yard he usually went to play his lyre as a child. 

I followed him, curious, through the palace gardens, past the side gates. There was a narrow path that veered off the main road, that led past the olive groves with their neat rows of trees and gnarled roots, and to the beach nearby. I could hear the soft whisper of the waves as they rolled against the shore, could see the moon reflecting on the sea’s dark and glassy surface. Achilles stopped, his hand squeezing my own gently. 

I turned around, then gasped softly when Achilles’ lips were pressed against my own. The sudden contact sent sharp desire racing through my veins; his lips were lush and moist, tasting of wine, of rosemary and clove. I hadn’t kissed him since that morning, and it felt to me like a year had passed since then. A soft sigh left me and my wrists came to lock behind his neck to pull him close, as if by instinct. 

Achilles walked me back against a tree trunk, his palms smoothing up my spine. I grew breathless as I kissed him, my mind slipping away from me slowly, silk threads running through my fingers. Mere moments before it was all but gone, I pulled back to look up at him. “What if someone sees us?” I whispered. “We’re still close to the palace.”

“Then they’ll see two people kissing.” His eyes glittered, his hair and skin silver in the moonglow. His lips were curled in his cat’s smile when he leaned forward to kiss me again. Before I knew it, my heart was racing with the pressure of his body against my own, my fingers tangling in his hair. I wanted to melt in his arms, to dissolve and lose myself completely, but the distant sound of the waves brought me back to my senses.

I did not want to voice my fear, yet knew I had to. “Your mother.” I took a shaky breath as I broke our kiss, held his gaze levelly. “What if she sees us?”

Achilles stayed silent for a moment, watching me. His features were smooth and tensionless, his expression unreadable, but I could see the hunger that flashed in his eyes, the want, the desire that I had come to know so well. I shivered slightly when he traced the line of my jaw with his thumb, when his tongue brushed over his wine-stained lips. “Then she, too, will see two people kissing.” His gaze on me was steady, his mouth only a breath from my own when he whispered, “I would not stop.”

I had heard him say this many times before, yet it still took me by surprise. The fact that he could do something that his mother or father would disapprove of, but he cared not at all. I swallowed thickly, my skin getting warmer as he studied me, as his lips hovered before my own, his breath mingling with mine. 

I raised an eyebrow and flashed him a small, cheeky smile. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

Achilles leaned back, blinking at me in surprise. “I am not. I only had two cups of wine.”

“We both know that’s all it takes.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Are you insinuating,” he said slowly, “...that I, the son of Peleus and the immortal Thetis…” he leaned closer still, so close our noses were almost touching, “... am a lightweight?"

We stared at each other, holding our breaths, before we both broke out in laughter. We laughed and laughed, until my stomach hurt. It was the first time I had seen him laugh like this since we had set foot in the palace. 

Achilles wiped a tear of mirth from his eyes, catching my hand to pull me towards him. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go for a swim.”

  
  
  
  


We stood at the water's edge for a long while, our hands still entwined. It felt like an act of bravery to take the next step into the sea. The waters had always been Thetis' realm, and to do something like this was like the ultimate defiance. My heart trembled; I wanted to turn back and run.

 _You don't give things up as easily as you once did_ , Chiron had told me, his last words to me before we'd parted. They filled me with strength as I took a step forward. I turned to Achilles, and his grin mirrored my own. Of all my small victories, this was the most thrilling. 

I shivered when the cool, dark waters enveloped me as we dove in headfirst. We swam and played and wrestled like we always did. Achilles dove in and out of the water like a dolphin, then circled me like a shark. I raced him, again and again, and again and again he won, yet I couldn’t help but feel we were both victors. We laughed until we were breathless, until my skin was warm and tight. After we'd swam to our hearts’ content, we lay on the cool sand to catch our breaths and dry. The stars shone above us, silver bright. 

"Look," Achilles said, pointing to the cluster of stars in the horizon that was just starting to twinkle shyly into the dying night. The Pleiades, the winter stars that signalled the ripening of autumn, when the northern winds would blow high and crisp over the verdant valleys and olive groves of Phthia. Seven stars, one for every daughter of the Titan Atlas and the nymph Pleione, each more beautiful than the one before her. Merope, the youngest and fairest of them all, had been abducted by Orion, the giant huntsman, whose star shone close by her; thus her light had been diminished, the first to disappear when the sun rose.

"Can you imagine," Achilles whispered by my ear, "if a god swooped down and abducted you, just like that?"

 _Gods can do worse than that,_ I almost said, but held the words back. It was too quiet, too mellow a moment to mar with bitter thoughts of misfortune and divine cruelty. So I turned to him and smiled instead, as if to ward off my own fears, kissing the drops of seawater from his cheek. "I would never let them take me from you."

He smiled, leaning into my touch. "How would you stop them?” 

“Anyway I had to.”

“Would you fight them?"

I shifted on my side to face him, caressing the smooth angles and planes of his face with my fingertips. I felt brave, invincible, like I could conquer the world with my will alone. "I would,” I whispered, leaning in to taste his petal soft lips. “I would do anything to be by your side.”

He sighed into our kiss as he pulled me closer. "I would never let anything take you from me, Patroclus."

We lay there, under the stars, until their light dwindled and the sun rose shyly over the distant horizon, and the first fishermen's boats rowed back to shore. We returned to our room with the dawn and lay on our bed with the salt and sand still sticking to our skin. That night was the first one that I finally slept, snuggled safely into Achilles' arms, lulled into slumber by his rhythmic breathing, his soothing, undulating warmth.

When I woke up, Achilles was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, if I had it my way these two would never be parted, they would have just stayed in their cosy little cave and snuggled for all eternity ;w; alas! I am but a humble slave to this beautiful, heartbreaking story. (that doesn't stop me from writing shameless smutty one shots to process my overdramatic feelings though - it's [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28862748) if you want to check it out! >:D)
> 
> Thank you sooooo much for reading! As always, I love hearing your feedback, insights and ideas, they really give me life :")
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi or, you know, throw figs at me or something. <3


	11. Woven Garlands, Made of Flowers, Around Your Soft Throat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of the chapters that will take place in Skyros, and it is told from Achilles' POV. I always wondered what happened to him while he was there, so this is my attempt to satisfy my own curiosity, and hopefully yours too. I hope you enjoy!

“I will not do it.”

Achilles tilted his chin up in defiance, crossing his arms before his chest. His mother met his gaze levelly, dark eyes sharp and shining like the flashing edge of a sword against a burning sky. 

“You must.” 

“Says who?”

Thetis' lips tightened at his insolence, but Achilles did not care that he displeased her. His anger was bubbling steadily beneath his skin, sending blood pumping through every vein. He had fallen asleep at dawn in his bed, by Patroclus’ side, yet when he had woken up, he had found himself on a foreign beach, with his mother standing over him. 

They glared at each other for a long while now, the rhythmic susurrus of the waves beside them and the distant cries of seagulls the only sounds between them. “I will not stay here,” he declared. “Take me back to Phthia.”

“No.”

Achilles gritted his teeth, huffing like a caged lion. His patience was running thin, only to be replaced by worry. It was spreading fast within him, like poison, at the thought of Patroclus being alone. Achilles had to return to him. Somehow.

“You have to take me back. I am leaving for Mycenae in two days with Father. All the kings and generals of the Danaans will be expecting us. I have to be there.”

“This is why I brought you here,” she said, unrelenting. 

“Why?”

“Because the Danaans want you to fight their war, spill blood for their ends. If you go to Mycenae, they will not let you return to Phthia. They will take you with them to Troy.” 

“Even if I refuse? They cannot make me.”

“They have their ways. Mortal men are weak, but their cunning is not to be underestimated. They will use every trick at their disposal to bend you to their will.” Her own anger flashed in her eyes, her mouth curling in contempt, and something else, like despair, that sent her words flying through her lips much faster than normal, with unusual urgency. “You must not go to war yet. It is not time.”

“And you thought to abduct me?” His pulse thrummed in his temples, swelled in his throat. Patroclus would have woken up by now. He would have risen in an empty bed, and he would be searching for him. The thought of him on his own, worrying and fretting, of his warm, gentle eyes filling with tears—

No. He could not allow this. He _would_ not allow this.

“You cannot keep me here,” he said, his jaw set in grim determination. “I will swim back to Phthia if I have to.”

“If you go to war, Patroclus will go with you. You know he will have to, as your _therapon._ ” His mother’s eyes hardened to stone. _Is this what you want?_ they seemed to be asking him.

That gave Achilles pause, dampened his rising temper. He did not relish the thought of going to war, not when Patroclus would be bound to follow him. He had heard the tales and the songs, he had listened to his father’s and his friends’ stories about the bloodshed of battle, the dangers it harboured. Achilles would not take his sweet Patroclus there, not before he was ready. He himself might have been born for it, but Patroclus had not. One day he would have to, but that day was still far away. 

“Cowards flee,” he said testily, his hesitation softening his voice and the sharp edge of his tongue. “I am not a coward. Neither is Patroclus.” 

“Your time to fight and claim your glory will come, Achilles. There is time for that yet. This war is not worthy of you.”

Achilles took a slow, steadying breath. “What if they take Patroclus to Troy while I’m away?”

“They will not. The Greeks care not for the oath he’s given, they do not even remember him. It is you they care about."

“But—”

“There is no other way, Achilles. Patroclus has to stay in Phthia, and you have to remain here.” His mother’s expression softened when she sensed his hesitation; the waves stretched towards her bare feet, lapping at the golden shore like lamb’s tongues. “It will not be forever.”

“How long?” he asked, and already he could feel his resolve slipping away from him.

“Only for a short while.”

Achilles opened his mouth, closed it. To be anywhere without Patroclus, for however short a while, was unthinkable. Patroclus was his first friend and best, his beloved, his sworn companion. An essential, inextricable part of him. He had promised him never to leave him, never to let anything come between them. How could he break that promise now? Yet if he did not, then they would both have to go to Troy. Patroclus’ hands would be stained red with blood, and his soul dark with the atrocities of war, the cruelty. He thought of his Patroclus standing in a battlefield, caught in a war that he neither cared nor wished for, the ground beneath his feet bloody and torn asunder by chariots and spears. He could not bear it. 

He clenched his jaw as he grated out a weak sound of acquiescence, his voice hoarse in his ears. For Patroclus. He would do it, for Patroclus.

The mountain that rose before them seemed barren and empty save for the palace that was built upon a wide terrace in the stone. Achilles let his gaze glide over the short and stubby trees that lined the coast, the dry brush that stubbornly clung to the rock, the intricate lacework of beaches that spread far below them as he followed his mother through the winding paths up to the palace of Skyros. 

Before they reached the palace, she veered off the narrow path and into a small grove, concealed by the branches of short fir and pine trees. She produced a small bundle from beneath her rich cloak: a woman’s white dress with thread-of-gold embroidery along the neck and sleeves, a wide crimson belt and golden pins to keep the fabric in place, soft leather sandals, a brightly coloured scarf to bind his hair. “You must wear this.”

“These are women’s clothes.”

“The king of this island is known for accepting daughters from wealthy and noble families, and raising them as if they were his own. It is safe here, safer than anywhere else I could take you, but rumours spread fast. If this is to work, no one can know who you are.” She tried to push the bundle into his arms, but he took a step back.

“You wish me to deceive this man, who will be accepting me in his hall and extending his hospitality to me?” He shook his head. “I cannot. It is not right.”

“Achilles,” she said when he opened his mouth to refuse, her tone almost pleading. “You must trust me.”

Achilles snapped his lips shut, plucking the bundle from her hands with more than a little reluctance. The path ahead of him was filled with thorns, it seemed, but if by walking it he could keep Patroclus safe, at least for a while… then Achilles would walk it, a thousand times over.

Patroclus would have done the same for him.

  
  


Skyros’ palace was humble, its decorations simple, the banners that swayed with the wind before the gates faded with time and bleached by the sun. The hem of the dress whispered around his ankles as he and his mother crossed the empty courtyard. The guards at the entrance did not seem overly impressed by their presence; one young man was leaning lazily against the side of the door, while two others were tossing dice on a low table. Achilles returned their bored glances with cool and detached curiosity. If the guards back in Phthia’s palace had slouched and whiled about like this, it wouldn’t have taken long for Agesilaus, the captain of the palace’s guard, to whip them into shape. His father offered a lot to his men, but expected order and firm discipline in return. 

The guards' gaze stayed only for a moment on him, before sliding to his mother. Then, their eyes widened and they scrambled to their feet, their game of dice swiftly forgotten. She stood tall amongst them, her skin gleaming bone white and her black eyes sparkling like coals as she regarded them with thinly veiled disdain. The old and dusty hall looked pale and drabber still in her presence. 

“We would see your king,” she told them, her voice ringing with the natural authority of her divinity. 

The guards hastened to lead them into the palace, their eyes kept firmly on the ground to avoid Thetis’ icy glare. Faint music and song drifted through the long and narrow corridors, louder the deeper they ventured. The throne room, when they finally reached it, was as lacklustre as the rest of the place but it was brimming with people, sitting at the tables that lined the hall. Two high backed chairs stood at the far end of it; on one of them sat an old and weary man wrapped in soft leathers and furs, his form diminished underneath them. His white-yellow beard reached down to his chest, the wisps of it disappearing into the fox-fur pelt that was draped around his shoulders. His tired eyes were following the movements of the group of dancers before him, young women with their hair bound with purple cloths, the hem of their long dresses lifted slightly to expose their slender ankles. Around their necks hung garlands woven with flowers, and the golden bracelets around their wrists clinked as they moved. 

The rest of the people in the room were watching the girls as well, sipping on the wine that the servants were mixing in large brass bowls. The smells of cooking meat and spices were thick in the air, as well as that of fresh blood and incense; a sacrifice must have been made shortly before they’d arrived. A celebration for Pallas Athena, he realised soon after, noticing the goddess’ priestesses that sat in places of honour at the high table.

As soon as the dance had finished, all the dancers retreated to the side of the room. All except for one, a young girl with her dark curls falling in glossy waves down her back, who took her place beside the old king. His daughter, possibly. His mother stepped forward, and every pair of eyes in the hall focused on them before she had even uttered a word.

“King Lycomedes,” his mother said, addressing the man formally. “I thank you for accepting us in your hall on this holy day.”

Achilles blinked, taken aback. The name was familiar, told in age old stories and songs. It was said that Theseus, the mighty hero that had slain the minotaur in Crete, had been killed by Lycomedes after losing the favour of the Athenians and sailing to his distant island to seek refuge. Had Skyros been that distant island? And had this Lycomedes been the one under whose hand Theseus had perished, pushed him off a high cliff to his death? This... shrivelled old man? Even in his youth, he couldn’t have been tall and strong, like Achilles imagined heroes to be, and his old and forgotten hall was nothing to reflect or warrant that fame. 

His mother, tall and bright enough to cloak everyone in that room in shadow, continued. “I present to you my daughter, Pyrrha. It will be an honour to have her reside here, amongst your foster daughters.”

Achilles tensed with the false introduction, but kept his silence as the elderly king’s and his daughter’s gazes fell on him. He wanted to rip that dress off of his shoulders and put an end to his mother’s ruse, to declare himself for who he was: Achilles, son of Peleus and the immortal Thetis, who had nothing to fear or to hide. 

_For Patroclus,_ he reminded himself as he cast his eyes downward, like his mother had taught him before taking him to the palace, and curtsied before the old king. 

Lycomedes rose slowly from his seat, holding his daughter’s hand for support. 

“Thetis, daughter of Nereus,” he started, speaking with slow and deliberate formality, “I welcome you and your daughter Pyrrha in my hall. She will want for nothing here, for as long as you wish her to stay with us.”

At a swift nod from the princess, one of the maidens stepped forward and placed a garland of flowers around his neck, delicate white roses, crimson cyclamens and violets, marking him as one of the dancers. Achilles turned to glance at his mother over his shoulder as he was led away, to sit with the rest of the young women at the far side of the hall. 

Her eyes met his own, onyx flecked with gold, pained but unrelenting.

  
  


After the celebration, the princess —Deidameia was her name— led him to the women’s quarters. The corridors they passed through were dark and labyrinthine, with no light other than that from the torches that cast trembling shadows on the walls. The marble floors were worn smooth by the passing of countless feet, their surface matted and dull instead of the glossy white marble of his father’s palace. 

“Have you ever heard of the dancers of Skyros, Pyrrha?” the girl asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. She had a fine voice, the kind that carried cleanly through silence and noise alike. It bounced and echoed around the corridors as they walked, coming back at them in a multitude of noisy whispers. “Kings and nobles send their daughters here, begging my father to foster them. Word of our skill in dancing has reached every corner of Hellas and beyond. Did you know that?”

“No. I did not. I have never heard of the dancers of Skyros in my life.” His words were uttered swiftly, quick and sharp, like a knife. More abruptly than he’d wished, but he could not help the unease that had taken hold of him. It was a dark and sunless place that Deidameia was leading him to, the rooms barely large enough to fit a narrow cot. Was that where he would have to stay now, for gods knew how long? Without Patroclus? The thought of him, alone in Phthia, searching for him, was enough to carve a hole in his stomach. 

Deidameia stopped walking and blinked at him for a moment, then lifted her button nose. Her features were small and graceful, and she might have been considered beautiful by many, but she only reminded Achilles of a curious fox. 

“Where did you grow up?” she asked, her dark brown gaze keen and inquisitive. “Where do you come from?”

Achilles kept his silence. He wasn’t sure how much his mother had revealed to them, and however much he longed to admit the truth to her and flee, he bit the words back.

“Is it Phthia you come from?” Deidameia pressed on, tilting her head to the side. “I've heard it said that Thetis is often seen there, in Peleus’ palace. She goes to see her son, Achilles. Have you seen Achilles?”

He just stared at her expressionlessly. 

“Is he your brother?” she insisted. “Your half-brother?” 

Achilles wetted his lips, his heart thumping in his throat with the barrage of questions that he wanted to answer but could not. “No,” he said at last. His answer didn’t seem to placate Deidameia. If anything, it urged her on.

“There are a lot of rumours about him. Some have even reached us here! Not that we don’t get travellers and traders,” she added quickly, “but we’re a little far removed from the thick of things, you understand. Father says it is better this way. Skyros is the island of the gods, a small paradise, rich and plentiful. The gods often come here, too. Have you seen our horses? Skyrian horses are known the world over. My father has many stable-fulls, all over the island. It is said they were blessed by Poseidon himself, that’s why they’re so clever and swift.”

“I have not,” Achilles shook his head. He wanted nothing more but to drop all conversation with her and retreat to a room as far away from her as possible, but his curiosity got the better of him. “What rumours have you heard of him? Of… Achilles?”

Deidamia’s eyes flashed brightly at finally having stirred his interest. “It is said that he is strong and fleet-footed, faster than any man alive. That no one has ever seen him fight, because your mother, Thetis, will turn him to stone on the spot. That he can cross an entire stadium in the blink of an eye. I heard he has been the victor of many games; running, discus throwing, wrestling…” She ticked them off on her fingers as she spoke, her plump lips pursing in thought. “He has competed in Phthia and Opus, they say. Pagasae as well, has he not? You must have seen him! Oh, you’re no good,” she scoffed with a dismissive wave when Achilles once again did not answer. “I expected you’d bring us news from the mainland, but you barely speak!” She placed her fists on her hips, her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “I’ve also heard he’s tall and fair. That his hair is golden and bright like the sun. In that, at least, I think you are somewhat alike.”

She reached out, tugging a lock of hair free from his scarf. Achilles tensed, but did not draw away. Deidameia curled the strand around her finger, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“I will find out all your secrets, Pyrrha,” she said with a wicked grin as she let him go. “I always do.”

Achilles let out a breath of relief when she turned around and started walking again, tossing her perfumed hair over her shoulder. 

The dancer’s hall, as it was called, was the only room in the women’s quarter that had a window. A small one, from which only a streak of sunlight slithered through, but it still allowed a hint of a breeze to drift into the otherwise stifling space. Tendrils of incense coiled lazily towards the ceiling from the lit braziers in the center, giving off a thick and heady scent of sandalwood and frankincense. Two girls were practicing their dancing, their bare feet gently tapping the ground, their slender arms sweeping over their heads in wide arcs, like birds. Another cluster was sitting on the long and narrow pillowed bench by the window, braiding each other’s hair. The sweet notes of a lyre reached him from the far end of the room, the sound almost drowned out by the girl’s chatter and their hushed whispers. 

Achilles’ heart was gripped in a tight vice. He hadn’t had the chance to bring anything with him from Phthia, not even Patroclus’ mother’s lyre. Patroclus would find the lyre in its usual place, by the wall next to the bed they shared, and he would think Achilles had abandoned him. 

_A little while,_ he told himself. _Just for a little while, and then we’ll be together again._

Deidameia crossed the hall, ignoring the other girls who ceased their talk to peer curiously at them. She stopped before a room and pushed its door open.

“Your mother has asked for you to have a room of your own,” she informed him. It was much smaller than his room in Phthia, with a narrow bed and a pelt spread on the marble floor. He stared at it for a long while, reluctant to step inside. He had the oddest feeling that he’d been dreaming all this while, and that once he stepped in that room and the door closed behind him, it would all become real. He would be alone in this dark and windowless place, that was barely wide enough for him to pace three times and back. He could pretend that Patroclus was there with him, and he could speak to him, but he knew his voice would simply bounce off the walls back to him, dull and hollow. 

Deidameia stirred him out of his thoughts. “You should come and practice with me and the girls this evening. Do you dance?”

Achilles’ nod was a slow, reserved one. When he practiced with his spears, it was a little like dancing, he thought. Besides, anything would be better than staying in that room on his own. Deidameia smiled brightly at him, reaching out to take his hand in hers.

“You’ll have a wonderful time here, Pyrrha. You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This chapter was really fun to write, but also gave me a little bit of trouble. My primary source of inspiration has been the Achilleid, an unfinished epic poem by Publius Papinius Statius, which was intended to follow Achilles from his youth to his death in Troy, and covers his time in Skyros as well. My problem was that, although he was most certainly taken there against his will, he *did* agree to stay there (albeit reluctantly) which means that Thetis must have somehow convinced him to do so. In the original poem he stayed there because he fell in love with Deidameia, but all of us know that this is clearly not the case (lol). We know from TSOA that Thetis used Achilles' feelings for Patroclus to force him to marry Deidameia, so I thought it would make sense that she would use his concern for Patroclus' safety from the very beginning to make him stay. 
> 
> My portrayal of Thetis here might be a little different from TSOA, mainly because this is from Achilles' POV. She is much less the cruel goddess that Patroclus fears, and more so the concerned mother that Achilles trusts. That is also one of the reasons why I think he went along with her plans, because he automatically assumed that she was telling him the truth. 
> 
> The next couple chapters will be looking more closely into Achilles' time in Skyros, as well as Deidameia's character. I personally have a lot of sympathy for her, since she was just a young girl that was forced into that situation just like Achilles was. I hope you like my take on her!
> 
> 2\. The title of this chapter is from Sappho's Fragment 94, translated by Anne Carson.
> 
> 3\. _Danaans_ is another name for the ancient Greeks as a whole.
> 
> 4\. The Skyrian horses that Deidameia mentions are actually a thing, and they are a breed that has been native to the island since antiquity. They are ADORABLE and you can see them [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YbcxU1IK7s4).
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! <3


	12. Still Waters

The unwrought wool was coarse and rough as Achilles rubbed it between forefinger and thumb. Deidameia had shown him how to spin it, thread it, coil it in loose skeins. He had been at this all morning, and now they were amassing in neat rows by his side. 

Pagona, one of the maidens, was sitting beside him, working on her embroidery. She liked to sing as she worked, and sometimes the other girls joined her, but the hall was mostly quiet now. It was a lazy afternoon, and most of the girls had gone to rest, while Deidameia and her closest companions had stayed in the dancers’ hall. The princess had swiftly taken a liking to him, keeping him close by her side wherever she went. Why that was, he could not tell, but he had soon found out that being on her good side was preferable. She was a noisy, demanding thing; her temper tantrums were known and feared the palace over, and not a few girls had received the sharp edge of her tongue in the short while Achilles had been there. Yet, with those in her favour, she was witty and affectionate, and surprisingly generous with her gifts and praise. Of Achilles she was particularly fond; she would often sit beside him and watch him work, or ask to braid his hair, or listen with avid interest when he played the lyre. Achilles quite liked her, actually, most of the time. 

Achilles lifted his eyes from his work to gaze outside the lone window of the hall. The sun was hanging in the middle of the sky now, golden rays that made the sand and the sea far below glow iridescent in the light. If he listened carefully, he could hear the waves that rolled rhythmically against the shore, the wind that stirred the branches of the short pine trees close to the beach. Sea birds were flying high, gliding smoothly over water and land alike. 

He sighed, the balls of wool forgotten in his lap. He longed to leave the stuffy room, to run down to the beach and dive under the waves. He wanted to stretch his muscles, to race and swim, to practice his spears. No matter how many hours he danced with the maidens, his limbs still felt heavy and stiff, and however long he spent spinning wool and plaiting flowers in garlands and wreaths his mind would just keep drifting from his tasks. Back in Phthia, he could walk to any corner of the palace and the lands beyond completely undisturbed. Here, in this windowless place, where guards stood at every entrance, he could only gaze outside the window, and dream. Almost he wished for another celebration or banquet, just so he could escape this confinement and walk out into the world. 

How very dull, a woman’s life was.

“What is the matter, Pyrrha?” Pagona asked him, stirring him out of his thoughts. She had left her embroidery aside, and was now peering at him with tilted hazel eyes. She was from the north, from the mountains west of Vergina, and her accent was thick, her vowels flat and drawn out. “You are very quiet today.”

“I am well,” he told her with his woman’s voice. He suppressed another sigh as he tore his gaze away from the window and went back to spinning his wool. 

Pagona watched him as he worked. “You often get this look in your eyes,” she said softly.

“What look?”

“One moment we’re all dancing and laughing, and then you’ll look away and sigh. As if the weight of the world is on your shoulders.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “It’s almost as if you’re in love. Are you?” Her eyes flashed with interest as she moved closer to him, lowering her voice so the other girls wouldn’t hear. “Did you have a... suitor, back in Phthia?”

Achilles frowned. “A suitor?”

“Yes. Or a special friend, if you will.”

Achilles swallowed thickly as Patroclus’ countenance flashed before his eyes. It had almost been two weeks since Achilles had seen him last. At times, he could feel his absence as sharply as an open wound; others it was a dull and ghost-like throb, like a missing limb. The ache was always there, even when he slept, even when he was busy with work or deep in thought. It still seemed impossible to him, right then, that they had spent so long apart. He felt dazed, as if the past several days, ever since he’d woken up on Skyros’ beach, were nothing but a dream. As if his eyes were closed, and when he opened them again he would see Patroclus there, smiling at him. 

His throat constricted painfully. He pressed his lips together tightly and looked away. 

“There it is again.” There was sympathy in Pagona’s features when she said, “You must really love him.”

“Who?”

Deidameia’s silvery voice pierced the relative quiet of the room. She had been practicing her dancing while one of the girls, Phrasikleia, was playing the flute for her. The music stopped abruptly as both girls stood still now, staring at them. 

A mischievous smile widened Deidameia’s lips as she abandoned her dancing form and hopped to his side. “Well? Who is it?”

“Who’s who?”

“Oh, now you’re acting coy! I just heard you say you have a _lover_ ,” she said in a lowered voice, her eyes flashing with enthusiasm. She folded her arms atop his shoulder and batted her eyelashes at him, waiting expectantly for his answer. 

“Pagona said that, not I,” Achilles corrected her matter-of-factly, but Deidameia would have none of it. 

“I know what I heard. And you, my dear Pyrrha, are blushing. So.” She brought her face even closer to his, until he could smell the faint scent of cloves on her breath when she spoke. “Who _is_ this mysterious friend of yours? I want to know everything about him. Every little thing.”

“I…” Achilles started slowly, but Phrasikleia, who had also drifted closer, spoke up before he could.

“I bet he’s tall like a fir tree and strong like an ox,” she grinned, sitting on a plush cushion on the floor before him, her tight dark ringlets bouncing as she moved. “I bet he has a mighty beard like Ares, and a hairy chest like Heracles, and eats a whole roast pig everyday, all by himself. I bet he tosses you over his shoulder and carries you off to his hall whenever he pleases!”

“Oh, no, I don’t think he’s like that at all,” Pagona said with a chuckle, while Achilles stared at Phrasikleia in utter horror. “I think he’s fair like Phoebus Apollo, with delicate hands and a beautiful smile. I bet he’s very gentle and kind, to have won our sweet Pyrrha’s heart.”

“Nonsense!” Deidameia cut them both off with a dismissive wave. “Neither of you know what you’re talking about. I think Pyrrha has taken a satyr for a lover, short and stubby and ugly like a toad. That’s why she does not tell us of him.”

“What?” Achilles gaped at her. “He is not like that at all!”

She grinned wickedly, holding her tongue behind her teeth. “Ha! So there really _is_ someone,” she said triumphantly. “I knew it!”

Achilles opened his mouth to speak, then closed it once more. The girls were all looking at him with gleeful smiles and bright eyes. Deidameia had laid out her trap, and he had walked right into it. He let out a soft sigh.

“Alright. There _is_ someone,” he finally admitted. The girls leaned closer still, so they wouldn’t miss a word. 

“Well?” Deidameia asked. “What does he look like?” 

Achilles licked his lips and took a breath. “He… he is not too tall. Same height as me… perhaps a little shorter. His hair is dark, thick with curls. It quite never stays where it’s supposed to. And it’s always so tangled when he wakes, falling over his eyes, standing up in peaks… he tosses and turns in his sleep. I always tease him about it.” 

Phrasikleia tilted her head to the side. “He is handsome, then?”

“He is.” He smiled sadly, “He doesn’t believe me when I tell him. He thinks himself quite plain. Yet he is anything but. He is unlike anyone I’ve ever seen.”

His lips quirked in a fond smile, just as his throat tightened once more. He hadn’t spoken about Patroclus to anyone for so long, and now he could do nothing to stop the words that tumbled out of him in waves. It was as if by speaking of him, he could summon his image in his mind, crystal clear. He could almost see his curls bouncing as he ran ahead of him, ducking under the low hanging branches of the maple trees in Pelion, the warm chestnut highlights in his hair catching the light of the early morning sun. His smile, now bright, then soft, then slipping sideways in that way Achilles knew so well. His eyes, watching him with warmth and adoration, with that tenderness that was reserved just for him. It made his heart ache with longing. 

“Is he kind?” Pagona asked softly, urging him on. “Is he gentle with you?”

Achilles started to speak, but it was then that he realised that his eyes were stinging with tears. Gods, how he’d missed him. He hadn’t even realised how devastatingly hollow his days had been without him, until Achilles had found himself talking about him. It was too much to bear. 

He swallowed thickly and nodded, looking away. He was sure that even if he tried to speak, he wouldn’t have been able to get the words out. 

“Oh, dear. Please don’t start weeping, it would be quite the sight,” Deidameia said, but her tone wasn’t quite as abrasive as it usually was. She sighed as she leaned against him, stroking his hair. “I bet you’re pretty even when you cry, anyway.”

The other girls were quiet now, and Achilles could sense the sympathy in their silence. Pagona took his hand in hers, and her large, round eyes were filled with earnest compassion. “You’ll see him again one day,” she said in her soothing voice. “I know you will.”

“Yes, she probably will,” Phrasikleia said, gathering her legs up to her chest and perching her chin on her knees, “but her parents probably don’t want her to marry him. Why else would they send her here?”

Deidameia perked up, her lips widening in that mischievous smile of hers. “Then she’ll have to elope with him! Won’t you, Pyrrha?”

“Oh, stop it, Deidameia,” Pagona laughed. “She won’t elope with anyone. That will only bring shame upon her family.” 

“There’s more shame in leaving the poor fellow pining after her! What if she leaves him for good, and he dies of a broken heart?” The princess swooned theatrically, falling into Achilles’ lap. “You couldn’t do that to him, could you, Pyrrha? It would be positively cruel.”

Achilles held her securely before she toppled on the marble floor at his feet. The other girls were chuckling with Deidameia’s antics, but he was as serious as ever. “I will never leave him,” he said solemnly, looking into Deidameia’s dark brown eyes. “I’ve given him my word. This is only temporary. Soon, we will be together again.”

She blinked up at him, taken aback by his earnestness. Her surprise lasted only for a moment before it melted away into a cunning smile. She reached up, tugging a lock of hair free from his scarf, as she often did, and curling it around her finger. “Our beautiful Pyrrha is quite the romantic, it seems,” she said softly, and in her eyes Achilles could see a flicker of understanding before it disappeared under the guise of a jest once more. “Who would have thought, hm?”

  
  
  
  
  


The moon was hanging high over the Aegean sea, casting its silver glow on its dark, glassy waters. It had been a long day and Achilles wanted nothing more but to retreat to his room, in his solitude, and finally take that dress off him and let his hair fall free around his shoulders. When his candle was out, and if he tried hard enough, he could almost forget that he was in a dark, windowless room. He could almost pretend that Patroclus was there, talking in hushed whispers with him until they both fell asleep. 

He let out a soft sigh, untying the scarf from his hair, when the door of his room swung open. He spun around in surprise, more so because he hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps. Either his senses had grown dull, or…

His mother stood at the doorway, tall and imposing, her dark eyes flecked with gold glowing in the half dark. She was one of the few people whose footsteps he couldn’t hear, unless she wanted him to. Her presence now filled the room, absorbing the feeble, trembling glow of the candle. Behind her stood Deidameia. She was quiet and reserved, like a mouse, nothing like her usual talkative self. Achilles didn’t bother to hide the surprise and confusion that must have been plain on his features. 

“Mother,” he said in his girl’s voice. 

“Achilles.” His mother’s gaze was intent, piercing him to the bone. “Son of my womb. Blood of my blood.”

Achilles’ breath caught. He stood perfectly still, not moving a single muscle. He glanced instinctively at Deidameia, whose eyes had gone wide as saucers, her face as pale as the moon. Her gaze flicked from his mother to him and back, but Thetis didn’t deign to spare her a single glance as she spoke on. 

“This,” she told the girl, her words sharp and steady like a freshly whetted blade, “is the prince Achilles. You are to tell no one that it is him. Do you understand?”

Deidameia’s expression was one of shock and confusion. She simply stared, dumb and stricken, until Thetis turned her head slowly to look at her. 

“Answer, girl.”

The princess sucked in a breath and nodded quickly. “I- Yes. I do. My lady.”

“You are to be married to him. He is to be your husband.”

“What?” Achilles stepped forward. Surely, he must have misheard. “Mother, what is the meaning of this?”

Thetis’ features were hard when she turned to him. She let the silence stretch between them before she said, “You and Deidameia are to be married. Tonight.”

Each word was like a stone, pelting him mercilessly. “Married?” he breathed. For a brief moment the world spun around him, closing in on him. “You can’t mean it.”

“I do.”

“But—” He started, then stopped. His mother’s expression hadn’t shifted, nor had it softened. She truly meant what she was saying. Every single word.

His temper rose like riptide, rushing past his numbing disbelief. He straightened his spine, meeting his mother’s gaze levelly. “I will not do it,” he said, voice steady and firm. “This goes too far.”

“You must.”

“No.” His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched. Deidameia was staring at him now, the flickering light of the candle reflecting in her eyes. Whatever she saw in his face had her taking a step back, cowering in the shadows that clung to the corner of the room. No matter. She didn’t matter, no one did. There was a flame inside him, one that turned hotter and wilder with every second that passed. His mother could not do this to him. He would not let her. 

“I am not marrying this woman,” he told her, tilting his chin up in defiance. “I am not marrying any woman. I already have a husband, and he is waiting for me in Phthia.”

Thetis’ eyes widened in what Achilles could only understand as genuine shock, and her nostrils flared. “No.”

“Patroclus is my husband,” he insisted, taking a step forward, “and I wish to go back to him, right now. You cannot keep me here any longer.”

In a blink of an eye, Thetis was standing before him, blocking his path. She was light and nimble despite her height, faster than he was. Achilles craned his neck to look up at her, but the blaze in her eyes did not stir any fear within him. “Mother, this is enough. Take me back.”

“If you go back to Phthia, you will both go to war. He might get injured, you might lose him, you might lose yourself.”

“Better to go to war with him, than stay in this place without him,” he spat, unable to keep his temper in check any longer. Anger was roiling within him, hot like molten steel, eating away the last of his control. Better far that they should go to war. It would be dangerous, but Achilles would keep Patroclus safe, no matter what it took, and they would be together. He and Patroclus were sworn to each other. He could not break that sacred bond. He would not. If going to war was what it took, spilling his blood and others’, then he would do it without hesitation.

For several long moments they simply glared at each other, neither saying a word. His mother's countenance was cold and expressionless, not a ripple disturbing the still waters. Deidameia was quiet as a shadow by the door, watching the entire scene with hungry, morbid curiosity. 

Thetis let the silence linger between them. When she spoke again, her voice was low and controlled, but he thought he could hear a tone of regret in it. “I cannot let you go to this war, Achilles. You have to stay here, whether you like it or not. Marry Deidameia,” she said, speaking each word slowly and deliberately, “and I will tell Patroclus where you are. He will come here, and you will stay in Skyros until the war passes. You will be safe, both of you. But if you don’t…” She paused meaningfully. 

“If I don’t?”

“He will never hear of you again. I’ll make sure of it.”

_No._

The raging fires of his anger stilled, went silent. There was not a sound to be heard, no wind blowing outside the walls, no voice. The flame of the candle had ceased its endless flickering, as if it, too, was holding its breath. The world was caught in a stand still; a frozen, empty wasteland it seemed to him right then. A world where Patroclus was not there for him. For a moment, a brief, fleeting moment, he tried to picture his life without him: never touching him, never holding him, never gazing upon his face again. Never waking up next to him again, never hearing the sound of laugh again, never breathing the same air, ever again. A long life, steeped in misery without him. 

His shoulders sagged, the breath he had been holding leaving him, the fight bleeding out of him. His mother knew him well enough to know that this was all the agreement she would get from him. She took Deidameia by the hand, somewhat forcefully, as if she was afraid he would change his mind, and bid her stand beside him. She placed Deidameia’s hand upon Achilles’ upturned palm. The words she spoke to bind them were not hurried, but spoken with low and quiet determination into the half dark of his chamber. 

Deidameia glanced at him, and in her eyes he could see numbness and shock that must have mirrored his own. When his mother let their hands fall, it felt like he had just jumped off a high cliff, only to crash against the sharp stones far below.

And so was Achilles married to Deidameia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand I made myself sad ;w;
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! Deidameia and the girls were a blast to write. As soon as I started writing the scene, it just took on a life of its own. Inevitably, now I feel even more sympathy for Deidameia and what she's about to go through. 
> 
> ALSO, I've been writing a smaller, separate fic which follows Patroclus during his sea voyage from Phthia to Skyros. You can check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29807718/chapters/73333647), if it sounds interesting! (In case the dose of angst here wasn't strong enough😂)
> 
> As always, thank you so, so much for reading and for your kudos, bookmarks and lovely comments. You guys are the best <3


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